Housekeeping
by Ennya
Summary: Working as a maid in one of Gotham's grimiest hotels, Jane figured she'd seen humanity at its very worst. Nothing prepared her for the strange, reclusive guest who liked to buy cans of red, white, and black greasepaint. Pre TDK.
1. Chapter 1

*Batman Begins and The Dark Knight do not belong to me. I do not make any money writing this story.*

_A/N: Had this idea forever...had to get it down. Hope its okay._

**Housekeeping**

**/**

Y'know what I was gonna do? I was going to be a zoologist. I loved animals, more so then people in many ways; I was one of those people who preferred the company of animals to the company of humans, probably because they never asked questions and never betrayed you. I wanted to work with animals for the rest of my life. I had it all figured out by the time I was eleven: I was going to finish high school, work maybe a year to earn a little money, maybe get a scholarship, go to college, become a zoologist and work in a zoo somewhere. It was going to be great! I was going to feed the lions, train the monkeys, entertain the dolphins, wrap snakes around my shoulders, cuddle koala bears...yeah, it was going to be great.

I never told anyone about becoming a zoologist. Well, not recently. I told one of my coworkers once, and all she did was laugh and joke that being a maid was kind of like being a zoologist, except that I'm cleaning up after larger, grosser, less intelligent animals. Somehow hearing your coworker describe it aloud as accurately as that was more depressing then thinking about it.

Anyway, as you've probably guessed, I'm not a zoologist. I'm a maid. I'm a maid and I fucking hate it. I don't know why I didn't quit when I was ahead. Day after day I found myself up to my elbows in garbage, semen stains, and bloody carpets; a one-way ticket to the rest of my life, and a million miles away from ever leaving Gotham. Ruined dreams are the norm in Gotham City.

That night had been no exception. It was 6:00 pm when I pushed open the door to room 307. As soon as the smell of whiskey, stale vomit, and cheap women's perfume hit my nostrils, I sighed heavily; so much for leaving work on time. Turning on the light I felt the breath leave my chest as I took in the sight of the destroyed room. It literally looked like a giant ball of garbage had crashed through the window and trashed the room. There was mess _everywhere_.

I started in the bathroom, unclogging a towel from the deep, wet recesses of the toilet. The mirror was littered with graffiti; as I scrubbed away at it, I realized it was scribbled all over with two different shades of lipstick: pussycat pink and velveteen violet. There was probably a bit of threesome action going on here, not too terribly unusual for the Palace. A white G-string was hanging over the shower curtain and it made me wonder: wouldn't a hooker notice that her panties were missing at the end of the night? Maybe not.

At 7:00 pm, when I should have been leaving for the night, I was pulling a left-footed clear plastic stiletto, a cheap Bic lighter, a dirty magazine, and a skid-marked pair of tighty whities out from under the bed (with my scrubbing gloves, I'll have you know). I stripped the moist, yellow-stained bed sheet from the bed and threw it into the trash, since it seemed irredeemable at that point. The pillowcases were soiled with lipstick, mascara stains, and traces of whiskey. I scrubbed the windows, which looked to have mashed potatoes splattered all over them. On the room service tray I found the empty whiskey bottle, along with a half-eaten vegetarian dinner, and an empty pack of condoms.

You'd figure that would have taken the cake. But when I opened the drawer on the bedside table, I found a pair of furry-lined handcuffs, a riding crop in poor condition, and (believe it or not) _five_ used condoms squished between the pages of the room's Bible.

By the time I had returned to the room to a somewhat livable state, it was 10:30 and pouring rain outside. I had eight blocks to walk to the train with pinching feet and a holey umbrella. To say it was the worst night of my life was an understatement.

Naturally it didn't get any better. That was the first night I saw _him._

Room 307 was my last room for the night. After I finished cleaning the monstrosity, I pushed my cart into the maintenance room. I threw the sheets into the baskets, ready for laundry the next morning, closed the door, locked it, and slowly made my way towards the bank of elevators so I could collect my stuff and go home.

The amplified sounds of copulation, television, and shouting surrounded me, and although it would usually make me cringe a little, that night I was too tired to really notice or care. Let them have sex, let them scream at each other, let them watch bad television, it didn't matter anymore. I leaned back against the elevator wall on the ride down, praying that it wouldn't stop and get stuck like it did on Polly last week; she'd been stuck in the elevator for _three hours_ before the fire department came, which wasn't too surprising; they don't really come down to this side of Gotham much anymore unless it's a real emergency.

The elevator doors opened (thankfully) and I walked into the lobby, rubbing my neck. The Palace had a tiny lobby with bad carpet and peeling painted walls. It was poorly lit, smelled badly of mildew, and worse when we sprayed the air freshener to cover up the mildew smell. There were crude landscape paintings on the walls, probably bought at some garage sale, and the front desk was splintering and in need of repair or replacing. We sold more condoms then candy out of the three vending machines that lined the far wall. Overall, it was fairly unwelcoming. Fitting, since this is where I first saw _him_.

The lobby was deserted, save for Martin who was working the night shift. I gave him a whole-hearted smile as I approached the desk. "Evening, Martin."

Martin smiled; he is literally the nicest man you could ever hope to meet in Gotham City. "Evenin' there, Jane. Hey, aren't you here a little late?"

I nodded. "Yeah, don't remind me." I said, coming around the desk to go through the door behind him, which led into the office. The office/break room/meeting room/closet was a tiny little room with a tiny little kitchen and a rickety table and set of chairs. I usually ate my lunch in here and spent my breaks in here. There was a weird, out-of-place door on the far side of the little room that led back out into the lobby towards the stairs. The door to the manager's office was closed, a telltale sign the manager was not in. Next to his door was a coat rack; my navy blue raincoat was the only one left; all the other girls were probably long gone. Frowning, I collected my coat from the hook, took my Tupperware out of the fridge, and unlocked the drawer where we put our purses when we worked.

As I collected my things, I vaguely heard the bell over the front door ring, and a big heavy body came stumbling in from the rain.

"Evenin' sir," Martin said happily. Martin told me once that he loved it when people came in late. It always made a fairly quiet, lonely job a little less lonely. "Sure is comin' down hard out there, ain't it?"

I was putting on my coat when I heard the low, mumbled reply. "I ah, need a room."

"Well sir if it's a room you're lookin' for, we sure got them." Martin said with a laugh, and I heard the creek of his chair as he stood up. "How many are you?"

Once I had everything, I decided to go out through the other door, since it would probably seem peculiar and unprofessional for a maid to go bustling through in the middle of a check-in (not that the Palace has ever been gun-hoe on professionalism, mind you). Once I was sure I had everything I brought with me to work, I headed out the side door, which opened in front of the stairwell, and turned the corner to go through the front door.

I got a fairly good look at him that first night. Our new guest was monstrously tall, or so it seemed in the poorly lit lobby, and every piece of clothing he wore was dark, about two sizes too big, and soaked with rain water. His long hair fell down around his face like dark, shaggy curtains and were dripping wet. I had a feeling that once he got to his room, he was going to have a nice hot shower…assuming the hot water kept long enough to have a decent shower.

He towered over the desk to sign a few papers for Martin, and I stopped to get my umbrella out of my bag. As I dug around, brushing my keys, lip balm, and bus pass, surprisingly I did not even touch my umbrella, and as I dug deeper of course my wallet fell right out and tumbled to the floor. I sighed heavily, bent down to retrieve it, and as I stood up, my eyes connected with those of our new guest.

Have you ever had a moment that occurred in 10 seconds but seemed to happen in slow motion? Our new guest watched me with eyes as black as night as I slowly stood up, and as I stared back at him I felt a very real chill roll down my spine.

Maybe it was the way he had his head turned to me: slight, and on an angle so most of his face was covered by long wet hair and only his eyes peered out at me through those tresses. Maybe it was the fact he was slightly hunched over, his shoulders up almost at his ears. Maybe it was the way he was watching me, innocently yet not so innocently. There was something hard and mean about those eyes; I've known mean men before and they all have their telltale characteristics, whether it's the sneery smile, the voice that yells, the hands that hurt…but there was something about him and the way he stared at me that I'll never forget.

I knew instinctively. Call it women's intuition. There was true meanness in him.

Clutching my wallet and my bag protectively to my chest, I pulled my eyes away from him and quickly went past him, distantly hearing Martin's cheery voice talking to him, but I headed for the front door just as fast as I could. I could feel his eyes on my back as I went. As I passed him I literally felt like a wave of relief wash over me, like when you get a bad vibe and when you get to safety, suddenly you feel so much better. Anyway, I rushed to the door, eager to be on my way, finally finding my umbrella and pulling it out. As I pushed open the door, I heard Martin behind me.

"There you are, sir. Room 310, the last one down the hall on the third floor."

I walked out into the rain, silently cursing. Fuck! Just my luck! The weirdest, creepiest guest I'd seen in weeks and he had to be staying on my floor. Swell.

**/**

It rained and it rained. I walked eight blocks under my crappy umbrella towards the Palace at 5 in the morning, getting more and more soaked and cold as I walked on. That was what I especially hated about Gotham City; it rained a lot, and was always dark all the time, or at least it seemed that way to me. Maybe it was just my sour outlook on life; then again maybe not.

I sighed heavily; Estelle the housekeeper had called an early morning meeting for all housekeeping staff. She calls herself a housekeeper, although I don't think the Palace is a nice enough place to warrant calling her a housekeeper. She's the head maid, and I figured if she wanted to call herself the housekeeper, she'd have been better off working at a bed and breakfast. Then again, she's the head maid; if she doesn't like you, she'll find a way to get you fired. She's vindictive like that. So if she calls herself the housekeeper, I guess I'm in no position to question her.

Needless to say, she's not the kind of person you wanted for a boss. She was controlling, manipulative, and spiteful. The way she bossed us all around, it wouldn't surprise me if she was once the warden of a women's maximum security penitentiary. So there I was, marching to work in the pouring rain at an ungodly hour on about four hours of shaky sleep.

We had our meetings in the tiny break room behind the front counter. There was four of us propped up at the table in our cheap uniforms, yawning away, greeted with cold coffee and stale pastries. I sat up, brushing my hair out of my face, struggling to stay awake, and propping my chin on my fist so I'd at least stay alert, and respond if she asked me any questions.

Estelle came waddling in, the last of us to arrive, looking flustered. Five in the morning and she was already sweating under her heavy arms. She was, as per usual, in a fairly pissy mood. "Ladies, Mr. Halterstead was by yesterday for the books and was appalled by the state of the lobby!"

Mr. Halterstead owned and managed Gotham Palace Heights. I met him once when I was first hired and was happy never to have seen him since, frankly. He was a very thin, strange man in his 40s with a hard-lined face and joyless blue eyes. From what I'd seen, and what I'd heard about him, he never seemed impressed or appalled about anything.

Estelle sat down in her seat, trying to catch her breath. Seemed like she ran a marathon before bothering to show up for the meeting. She fanned herself with her meaty hand, the complaint about the lobby forgotten. "Are you all using the bleach solution I gave you? Hmm? Y'know it works perfectly on the linoleum, gets the smells out."

I wanted to groan but didn't dare. It was way too early for any of this.

"I've also realized that our shampoo supplies are dwindling," Estelle continued as she began to thumb through the thin stack of papers she walked in with. "So until further notice, only put shampoo in the rooms when the guests ask for them."

I gawked in disbelief. Shampoo only when guests asked for it? No one was going to want to stay here. Although it was fairly safe to say our guests' first priority wasn't exactly good hygiene. I guess, in retrospect, the shampoo rationing was somewhat reasonable.

"Let's move onto guest feedback…" Estelle said, shuffling through her papers. Guaranteed, this was always the worst part of the meetings. I don't know where guests leave their comments, whether it's with the front desk or with Estelle herself, but they always surface, there are always a lot of them, and they're always horrible.

"Okay, floor two: ashtrays have not been emptied in the rooms. Towels haven't been changed. One guest said he found a dead rat in the bathtub!" Estelle threw up her arms in exasperation. "Lois, what the hell is going on?"

We all turned to look at Lois, who was in her late 30s with a gum-popping, hair-twirling attitude who got surprisingly defensive when her "hard work" was called into question. Today was no different: she popped her gum, put a glossy red fake fingernail down to the table surface and declared: "Every one of those rooms has clean towels every day!"

"Sure Lois," said Estelle, drumming her fingers on the table. "Are you actually cleaning the rooms or just adding them to your timesheet?"

I rolled my eyes at Polly, the other maid who was closer to my age, and she smiled back in understanding. This is how most of our staff meetings ended up: in the beginning, they totally focused on concerns and problems, but ended with Estelle and Lois fighting about something trivial.

Today, surprisingly, they agreed to disagree, and then it was time to move on. "Now, floor three…"

Estelle's big, brown, glassy, disapproving eyes drifted to me, at last, and I stared at her, holding my breath - waiting for the onslaught to begin.

"Jane, I had a guy complain to me the other day, he said you threw one of his shirts in the trash!"

I frowned, alarmed, and straightened up in my seat. "When was this?"

"Three days ago."

Three days ago? This was the first I'd even heard of it. I tried to think back and remember; was there a shirt or even a piece of cloth I had picked up off the floor and thrown out for some reason? Maybe in one of the bathrooms? Perhaps I had mistaken it for something, a washcloth maybe? Unable to place the situation clearly in my head, I shrugged and shook my head. "I suppose I could have mistaken it for a pillowcase or something…"

Estelle's stare narrowed to me. "He said it was ocean blue, it was hanging off the chair and you threw it away!"

The other girls looked at me but I just shook out my shoulders, unsure what to say, completely dumfounded. I didn't recall ever seeing an 'ocean blue' shirt hanging off a chair, and if there ever was one, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have thrown it away just to spite the guest. "I'm sorry, I don't recall seeing a shirt or throwing it out-"

Estelle sighed, unimpressed. "Well we had to give him a voucher for a free night just to calm him down. Don't let it happen again or it'll come out of your pocket."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she gave me that look that could curdle milk and I decided now was not a time to argue. I lowered my head. "Yes Estelle."

"Good," she said bluntly. "That's all for today, ladies. Now go to it."

I got up and left, feeling tired and grouchy. I can tell you now I sure as hell didn't throw away anyone's stupid blue shirt.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Polly said as we left the break room, out of ears reach of Estelle. "When I first started, some asshole said I walked in on him and his wife when they were in bed together."

"Eww." My nose curled, suppressing a laugh. "Did you really?"

Polly laughed at my reaction. "I did, but that sure wasn't his wife, it was Wendy."

Then I did laugh. Wendy was the hooker who worked out front; we were so used to seeing her around that we sometimes joked she should run the hotel.

"That's gross," I said grimacing, but Polly laughed. "I've walked in on her twice; it's never a pretty sight."

We began the ascent up the stairs to go to our designated floors to begin cleaning. The stairwell was in desperate need of replacing or at least maintenance; every second step creaked something awful and the carpet covering it was at least fifty years old; it was blue, really gross, and stained with fifty years worth of who knows what.

"What time did you get out of here last night?" Polly asked as we made our lazy ascent.

I let out a low, aggravated sigh. "Must have been 11 or something. Room 307 may as well have been hit by a bomb."

Polly smirked. "Martin said one of the Falcone guys came by yesterday with a couple of hookers-"

"Ah, there you go." I said. "There was writing all over the mirror in two different lipstick colours."

"Oh my god, I hate that!" Polly exclaimed. "Do they really think that lipstick just _comes off_?"

I shook my head, annoyed. Sure it had been last night, but it had still been an ordeal and, to date, the worst mess in a room I've ever cleaned. Damn those Falcone goons and their sexual tendencies. Unfortunately, because of its convenient location close to the Narrows, most of the Palace's clientele is Falcone goons.

We started walking up the stairs to go to the third floor, and my feet felt heavier and heavier with every step taken. Abruptly Polly patted my shoulder. "Hey, look on the bright side. The sooner to work, the sooner to finish, right?"

I looked up at her and gave her a genuine smile. Polly was too damn pretty to be a maid; she had long auburn hair she fixed up in a ponytail when she was working and let down at the end of the day. She had these massive sparkling brown eyes and full pretty pink lips. She could have been a model, no fooling; she could have been on the cover of _Gotham Runway_, living it up in a fancy penthouse suite, having gorgeous rich guys like that Bruce Wayne take her out for dinner and dancing. Instead she was here working at one of the grimiest hotels in the city, cleaning up after the Falcones and other unworldly, repulsive characters.

As we climbed the stairs I heard heavy footfalls on the steps above. Someone was coming down the stairs. Without looking up, I moved to the left side of the stairs, behind Polly, letting the guest shuffle past us on the narrow stairwell.

Strangely, as the guest went past us and descended the stairs, I felt the brush of rough cloth on my bare arm and shuddered deeply, my skin breaking out in goose-bumps. Stopping for a moment, I turned and looked down the stairs, only catching a fleeting glimpse of the guy who passed us. I frowned as I saw a man with an extremely tall stature and dark clothes disappear at the bottom of the stairs.

It was _him_.

I felt my shoulders seize up as I remembered, abruptly, how he had stared at me the night before in the lobby, those eyes like the deepest pits of black ocean watching me intently. Now, having been touched by his clothes, I felt harassed in the strangest way. I instantly put a hand to my skin that had been touched by him, covering it as though trying to comfort myself.

"Hmm," Polly said in an inquisitive tone, and when I looked up at her she too had stopped to catch a glimpse of our guest, a strange small smile tugging at her lips. "Must be a newbie; haven't seen him here before."

I frowned unhappily, turning back to stare down the stairs disapprovingly. "He came last night; Martin gave him 310."

"Oh, lucky you." Polly said, elbowing me and giving me a smile. "He's kind of cute…in a Texas chainsaw massacre kind of way."

I felt my eyebrows knit together in uncertainly, and stared up at her like she was crazy. "What are you talking about?"

Polly frowned and pointed at her mouth. "Well didn't you see…ah, don't worry about it." She waved her hand at me, turned around and continued her way up the stairs. "You'll probably see sooner or later."

I continued to follow her up the stairs. I promise you, we don't make it a habit of assessing which of our guests are hot and which ones are not, it's a losing battle and a waste of time. Guest 310 sure as hell was not "cute", even if Polly compared him to Leatherface; he was a strange giant of a man who dressed like a homeless person and had mean eyes. But frankly, it sure wasn't anything I was going to waste my time dwelling on. He was a guest, plain and simple. Guests come and go; I stay and clean up after them.

And anyway, it was time to start the day.

**/**

**Like it? Hate it?**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Wow! Thanks for the amazing feedback, everyone! Enjoy the update._

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Two**

**/**

I guess I should tell you a little about the hotel. Gotham Palace Heights was founded a pretty long time ago, and I guess back then the Narrows had been a nicer area, so the hotel was pretty fancy for the time. Mr. Halterstead, Martin, and Estelle are the hotel's veterans, so to speak; they've been here a real long time, know how everything is run, and all that jazz.

These days Gotham Palace Heights simply goes by the name of "the Palace", and as you've probably guessed, it's lost more than its natural pizzazz, but it's not the hotel's fault, really. The area just gradually got worse and worse, I think. The nickname "Palace" originated from our guests. Unfortunately, the majority of our guests include the lower capos of the Falcone crime family, and suits that come in from the financial sector downtown. They pick up hookers and fuck in the rooms, or get their fix and then they use the rooms to space out for a few hours. The suits are obviously much more interesting then the Falcone goons; they're men who seemed bored to death by their picturesque suburban lives, so they reach out to deviant behaviours. More often then not, they find their way here.

They call it "the Palace" because in this hotel, for the right price, you can be treated like a king and have whatever you want. It makes me wonder what they're going home to every night, if they call _this_ place is a palace.

The building is an L shape; in the morning I start with 301, the closest to the elevators, and make my way down the hall. Typically nobody stays more then a night, so send in the cleaning lady. Depending on the day, the moods of the guests, and the conditions in which they leave the rooms, cleaning can take anywhere between half a day and a day, but I'm usually always here until at least 4 pm. Staying late is the biggest pain in the ass; it's not like I have a husband and kids to go home to and feed and bathe and put to bed. It's just that it takes so long to get home, and in a city like Gotham, you don't want to be out too late – for obvious reasons.

Lack of coffee and food in my tummy made me particularly sluggish that morning. I was yawning as I bundled up my cart on fresh towels, linens, and toiletries (save for the shampoo bottles) and moved at a slug's pace out of the maintenance closet towards 301. According to my chart, all the rooms on the third floor needed thorough cleanings, whereas 304 (occupied) and 310 (also, unfortunately, occupied) needed the general. I parked my cart outside 301, glanced out the window to a view of the street below (surprise, surprise, it was still dark and dreary and raining) and turning my master-key to the door, I knocked on it twice, called "Housekeeping!" and let myself in.

301 wasn't bad. I was actually pleasantly surprised; the one towel that was used had been hung up on the hook in the bathroom, the bed-sheets weren't falling off the bed or on the floor, and I even smiled when I saw twelve min-rum bottles lined up perfectly with the labels perpendicular on top of the mini fridge.

One of the few nice things about this job is that you can often determine the mood, state of mind, and personality of the guests here based on how they leave the rooms. Whoever had been staying in 301 was probably in from the financial sector: one of those frustrated husbands who hung up his towel and kept the bed-sheets mostly in order because those habits had been beaten into him by his orderly housewife. But the little rum bottles, all twelve of them, suggested vast unhappiness, depression even. No signs of sex or prostitution (and believe me, there's _always_ signs) so my guess was that this guy, whoever he was, was a man of habit trying to escape a habitual lifestyle, and not doing as well as he would have hoped.

302, across the hall, was considerably worse. I couldn't figure out if the guests in the room had multiple people, or if it was just one big fat person, but all the towels were flung all over the bathroom, including over the shower rod and toilet, and they were all sopping wet. Disgusting. When I changed the bed sheets, they were covered in brown smears (hopefully chocolate, but I wasn't even going to try to find out) and every electrical appliance was unplugged for some reason. I struggled to pull out the bed to plug in the bedside lamp, and went around the room plugging in everything else. By the time I was finished, I figured the guest was probably suffering from neurosis.

At 9:30 I figured it was time for a coffee and a croissant, so I took an early break. I left my cart parked outside 303; usually we don't do that because Estelle goes apeshit if anything goes missing, but really, who was going to steal a bunch of soaked towels and a shit-stained bed sheet? I went downstairs into the office, took note that Mr. Halterstead's door was open, and collected my coat and purse.

It was still raining and it was still dark. I sighed heavily as I popped open my crappy umbrella, held it up over my head, and started to walk down the street. For the Narrows, there's a pretty decent little café close to us, and more often then not, whenever I have a little extra money, I like to splurge on a gynormous latte and a pastry.

I pushed open the door to the café, listened to the bell jingle over my head, and I shook the rain off my umbrella before folding it up.

Falcone goons were sitting right in front of me, three of them, dressed in the most beautiful expensive suits but they all had this real slimy look to them. They were drinking espresso in the little china cups, and as I walked in they paused in their conversation and looked up at me, as though I had interrupted a very important and very private conversation. Not taking any mind, I went to the counter and ordered my coffee.

They were still watching me as I collected my change, my coffee, and my croissant, and hurried past them out the door. Their eyes were like daggers; you could feel them on your body, cutting through the air. I didn't feel comfortable again until I got outside and breathed in the fresh air. As far as I knew, they probably owned that coffee shop and deemed it their new headquarters and I had just gone stumbling in to a very important meeting.

I stopped outside the coffee shop, hungrily gobbled down my croissant, and looking up and down the street, I started back towards the Palace, sipping my coffee as I walked along, watching the sidewalk so I wouldn't go stumbling over a piece of broken up concrete. The homeless people along the street sought what little shelter was to be had in doorways and under dumpster lids. Heavy metal music boomed from inside run-down apartment buildings I passed, and street kids were kicking a can around in the alleyway. Even in the daytime, the Narrows are a drab, depressing place.

I returned to the Palace and went directly to the office, saying good morning to Martin who was reading his newspaper at the desk. Mr. Halterstead's office door was closed and his light was off. That man's never around.

Continuing to sip my latte, I began the climb back to the third floor to resume cleaning. I liked to watch my little white tennis shoes contrast on the blue, blue carpet on the stairwell as I walked upstairs. It assured me that at least something in this place is clean.

As I came to the top of the stairs, I peered down the hallway to make sure no one had actually stolen my cart. Of course, I was met with something far worse: Estelle was there waiting for me, with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot, looking like a tightly clad sumo wrestler, and beet red in the face.

'Ah fuck', I thought to myself, wondering where I could ditch my coffee cup between the stairs and my cart, but it seemed useless. Knowing Estelle, she'd have seen the coffee cup and was preparing to give me a lecture like never before.

I started my descent down the hallway, and I could see the sweat stains under her rolls and fought to keep my gaze up. Approaching her slowly, I was about to tell her I'd only been gone 10 minutes max, but she beat me to it, as though just itching to give me a sound tongue-lashing.

Tapping her foot, she sucked in a breath, and her face got redder. "Jane, how many times have I told you not to leave the carts unattended?"

I pointed down the hall for some odd reason, as though it would explain everything. "I just went on a quick break-"

"I don't care if you left to meet with the freakin' district attorney!" She snapped suddenly, scowling deeply. "You don't _ever_ leave your cart completely unattended!"

I was about to describe to her the deliciousness of the contents of my cart, so that she too would see that no person in their right mind would taken them, but she stuck a fat finger in my face. "And don't argue! You've had things stolen before!"

Once, last summer, I took two pillow cases, a broken hairdryer, and a ripped lamp shade from a room and left them in my cart. Then, a pipe burst in the bathroom of 306 and I ran down to the office to get Mr. Halterstead. When I came back, my cart had been ransacked. Who the hell steals pillow cases, a broken hairdryer, and a ripped lamp shade?

I lowered my head; you could say I know when I'm beat. "Sorry Estelle. It won't happen again."

Estelle snorted in disgust. "Well it better not! You know we've got limited resources, we can't be replacing things left right and center!"

I nodded pitifully. "I know, Estelle."

"Good, now let's get back to work, hmm?" She said, and I jumped out of the way as she pushed past me. I watched her waddle down the hallway; she's so rotund she almost takes up the entire width of the narrow hallways. I watched her until she got to the staircase at the end of the hall and began the eternal struggle to go to the fourth floor, and then I turned back to my cart, sighing heavily. Fitting my coffee cup snugly in the spot where we usually put the shampoo bottles, I unstopped my cart and started pushing it down the hall towards 303.

I only got to 306 by lunchtime. Not bad, considering some days I only get through three or four rooms by lunchtime, and that's when I skip a break. Maybe I'd be out of here on time tonight. At 12:30 pm, I pushed my cart into the maintenance closet, locked it, and went downstairs into the break room.

Polly was there already, gingerly eating her usual yogurt parfait while flipping through the latest issues of Gotham Realty. Her dream was to meet an incredible man, get married, and settle down in a nice townhouse somewhere outside the city and have a horde of kids. It's a little farfetched and she knows it; how often do you meet and incredible man in the Narrows?

I came in with a yawn, and Polly sat up straight and grinned at me. "Guess what I found in 410!"

I went to the fridge to collect my lunch. "I don't know, a suitcase full of cash?"

I bent down, took my Tupperware container out of the fridge, stood up and turned around. I came face to face with Polly wearing a silvery-blue wig and I burst out laughing.

"Another one for the collection." Polly said as she took the wig off her head and smoothed it out.

"And a nice one too." I said, coming forward and rubbing the strands between my thumb and finger.

Here at the Palace we have a "lost and found" where we put the miscellaneous items we think were probably fairly pricy, and figure their owners will come looking for them. Since most of our clients are Falcone goons who bring escorts and hookers to the hotel, we get a lot of wigs, and I do mean a lot. There are more wigs then anything else in our lost and found; no one ever comes back to reclaim them, which is odd. Wigs are usually fairly expensive.

Polly put the wig away, still giggling, and resumed eating her yogurt. I sat down next to her and opened the Tupperware container, mixing around the cold spaghetti with my fork.

"This one," Polly said suddenly, and spun the magazine around so I could see the picture she was looking at. "This is the one I want."

Chewing away, I looked down at the page she had open. It was a fold-out of a very expensive-looking black leather living room set, complete with couch, chairs, a nice coffee table, and shocking red accent pieces, like strange red pillows and a great big lipstick red glass lamp. I swallowed my food and felt one of my eyebrows raise almost instinctively.

"This will be my living room," Polly declared, as though she had been given her pick of any living room set in the magazine. "And the kids won't be allowed to bring drinks in it because the carpet will be really expensive. And we'll cover the walls with really nice artwork, but all local, you know? Like it will be all local Gotham artists…"

Slowly and kind of sadly, Polly trailed off and stared at the picture with a forlorn look on her face. She's trained herself not to get too worked up about these things; this is her way of dealing with the disappointment associated with broken dreams. I frowned as I looked at her pretty face, frowning with such sadness. Polly deserved everything in that magazine, even one of those handsome male models that stood around in expensive suits, posing as the rich husband in the kitchen.

If I could, I'd take her into the magazine, put my arm around her, and say: "Polly, take your pick. Take the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom sets, and the bathroom. Choose, and they will be your home. And one of those wonderful-looking models, any one you want; he will be your husband."

Alas, I couldn't, and Polly closed the magazine and slid it to the far end of the table, so she wouldn't have to look upon it again. I sighed heavily. Getting what you want is never easy in Gotham.

Polly straightened up suddenly, and a wide smile suddenly appeared on her pink lips. You gotta hand it to her; she could be downright miserable one minute but not let it spoil her usually happy-go-lucky mood. She's so much more mature than I am.

"So…I heard you got in shit for leaving the cart unattended."

I sighed a little and looked down into my mess of spaghetti. "Yeah…"

"Don't sweat it," Polly said, as if it was nothing. "Estelle came up and gave me an earful because I was replenishing the shampoo bottles on the fourth floor."

I smiled as I chewed away. What'd I tell you? Prison warden.

I only took half an hour for lunch that day; I wanted to get home as soon as possible. I went back to work with a heavy heart, feeling uninspired and perfectly miserable, but the thought of finishing up on time made me skip steps going up the stairs and hurry my cart down the hallway towards 307. The Palace was deserted, but it would soon come alive. No rest for the wicked.

307 wasn't all that bad, except for the fact the mattress had been pulled off the bed-frame and I badly broke one my fingernails trying to wrestle the damn thing back onto the bed-frame. I was in a pretty bad mood at that point and rushed through the rest of the room. The bathroom too; I was more than anxious to get out for the night.

It was obvious that 308 had the remnants of a late-night poker game; cigarette butts all over the carpet, empty liquor bottles popped up everywhere, and all the garbage bins were stuffed with empty chip and pretzel bags. I was picking up playing cards up off the carpet, the bed, under the bed, in-behind the curtains, in the bedside table, and inside the drawer on the desk. Perfectly annoying, but at least there weren't any really huge stains or anything to clean up.

309 was the opposite; it looked as though it had been the ever-so fortunate venue for a sicker then sick orgy. At first I was afraid to touch anything because the entirety of the room seemed to be thickly coated with dry and drying puddles of semen. It was positively disgusting. I raced across the room to open the window wide to get out the smell and went to work peeling away the bed sheets, pillow cases (with my gloves, I can assure you) and stuffing them deep into my cart. I wiped clean the bedside table, scrubbed three discoloured spots on the carpet, and worked diligently in the bathroom.

To say I was angrier then Hell, wanted to go home, and wanted to throw my uniform at Estelle and scream _Fuck it_ in her fat face was an understatement. Luckily, the thought of cleaning just one last room and then being able to go home made me calm enough not to make a scene, quit my job, and worry about having to come back in the next morning, apologizing profusely and asking for my job back.

I pushed my cart up to 310's door, and a dark cloud settled over me. Creepo's room, but this was hardly the time to be defensive. One last room to finish and I could go home.

Sighing, I put the brake on my cart and tapped the door with my key. "Housekeeping!"

I listened carefully, but all I could hear was guests arguing down the hallway. I pressed my ear against the door, listening for footsteps, TV noise, the toilet flushing, anything, any sign of life. But there was nothing.

Frowning, I stepped back, tapped the door with my key, and called out once more. "Housekeeping!" and I turned the knob, letting myself in.

The room was dark, save for the gray light that seeped in from the window. And the room was quiet, dead quiet; there were no sounds from the street, or the rest of the hotel. It was strangely quiet, suspiciously quiet. When I swallowed it sounded like thunder rolling over. It sure was spooky, but I shook my head. Get a grip Jane, Creepo's been out for the day, that's why the room's so dead. I stepped in, the cold air sharply hitting my bare calves and arms, and looked around.

I had expected to see the room at least somewhat discombobulated, but I stood there for moments in still surprise. The room was…well, it almost looked as though it hadn't even been touched, save for the bed. I stepped inside fully, looking in the bathroom, but it too looked pretty clean. I moved in a little more, looking around the room, but everything looked the way it should have been.

Strangely though, there were no real signs that he had been here overnight. Usually guests come in with luggage, and there was no luggage to be seen. Sometimes they leave things behind, like wallets or shoes or briefcases (whether that's to tempt the maid in to stealing so the guest can sue the hotel, I'm not sure, but it's happened before). But the room was completely vacant.

The only things that had been touched were the bed sheets, which were turned over on the right-hand side, closest to the bedside table. It looked as though he had settled into bed and slept like a rock. And the remote control for the crappy little TV, that too had been moved. We usually put them on top of the television, but it was sitting on the bedside table. Maybe he'd been watching the news or something before he fell asleep.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I went into the bathroom, but nothing had been touched. Not the towels or even the soap. I looked in the garbage bins but there was nothing inside them to be emptied. I stood up and stuck my hands on my sides, feeling slightly perturbed.

I should have been overjoyed. The room was clean and didn't need further cleaning, so I was free to put everything away and go straight on home. But I felt annoyed for some strange reason. As I've said, the state the room is left in gives me an idea of the mindset of the guest, and it's been pretty entertaining determining what our guests are like.

What does the guest who touches nothing, and leaves nothing behind, have going on inside his head?

That was when I felt it. The air seemed to get colder, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I stiffened. My hands started to tremble and I sucked in a shocked breath. I felt eyes on my back and I realized I was not alone.

I heard his voice really clearly for the first time that night. It was low and unhappy, like a growl from an unimpressed, territorial creature.

"_What are you doing here?"_

**/**

:D


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! You guys are the best. Enjoy the chapter._

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Three**

**/**

I was startled, and so my first instinct was to run, just to get out and run as fast as I could and as far away as I could. But then I took a moment to realize how much I was over-reacting. Calm down Jane, he's a guest, and maybe he sounds pissed off but honestly, you're just doing your job, so just do your job and get out and we'll all be just fine.

Sucking in a deep breath, I put on a weak smile and turned around slowly but my smile dissipated almost immediately. There he stood, dark in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hallway like a dark giant. He stood so tall, he almost stood right up to the top of the door frame, and he was wide across the shoulders. Again he was wearing clothes that were too big for him and they made him look even more intimidating. I stared at him, frozen; I tried to think of something to say but truthfully I was so taken aback by his sudden appearance that I found it hard to say or do anything. I swallowed and stepped forward, wiping my clammy hands against my uniform to distract myself.

"I-I'm with housekeeping," I croaked, trying to sound strong, but my voice sounded unstable and nervous, and my legs started to shake a little. I guess I figured that so long as I identified myself as hotel staff, well then he couldn't get too angry now, could he?

He continued to stand in the doorway, not moving, as though I was trespassing in his room and he wouldn't even come in if I was still there. He stood with his shoulders hunched up, standing solid like a rock, holding a white grocery bag tightly between his clenched hands. He wove those gloves that were cut off at the knuckle, so I could see his fingers tight against the grocery bag; that, for some reason, made me feel even more uneasy.

Desperately trying not to scream and go fleeing from the room, I maintained my composure and took a step forward. His dark silhouette was making me so nervous, my heart was started to pummel hard against my chest. "Do…do you need anything, sir?"

It was then, even in the gray light from the window, that I got a better look at him, and I was appropriately shocked by what I saw. The first night, when he arrived, I hadn't really seen much, just his dark eyes and long greasy hair. But now I could see that his skin was fair, and his eyes were a deep dark brown that looked black against his skin. He had sharp cheekbones and a pleasantly shaped nose. The roots of his hair were lighter than the rest of his hair…dark blond, maybe. Strange that I would think it then, that he would have been achingly attractive…if it weren't for the scars.

The scars scared me worse then anything; they were jagged, protruding, swollen…and looked as though they'd been improperly stitched up. Whatever they were, self-mutilation, injury from assault, whatever…they obviously had been meant to look like a big, cruel smile, but they only made him look angrier.

That was what really scared me…in the low light of the room, with those scars; from the distance we were at…he looked as though he was grinning at me. He was a strange, quiet giant of a man with black eyes standing in the doorway grinning at me, a really sinister grin, as though he knew something I didn't. And then the closer I came the more I saw those eyes I remembered from the lobby, those eyes that were full of meanness, and I was chilled to the bone.

We stood there for what seemed to be a long time, just looking at each other, and I saw he was starting to get anxious. I could see his eyes twitter about the room as though making sure I hadn't done anything to it while he was out. He obviously wanted to come in and be alone but he couldn't so long as I was there too. It was as if he had caught me in the bedroom of his boyhood, touching his treasures and now that I had touched them they ceased to be his treasures. His uneasy body language, the way his eyes skittered about the room, landing everywhere but on me…it was the behaviour of a territorial adult but the vulnerability of a child. It didn't make any sense; I was little compared to him, I imagine I only stood about as high as his shoulder. What was he so distressed about? He wasn't the only anxious one; I wanted to go barging past him and get out into the hallway and into the light. I was half-inclined to tell him I'd be happy to leave him alone if he'd let me pass.

Determined to get out just as soon as I could, I swallowed over the lump in my throat. "D-Did you need anything sir?"

Finally, as though he'd had enough, he came inside, rushing right past me and nearly knocking me into the wall. He went to the desk by the window, emitting what sounded like an impatient growl from his throat, and put down his grocery bag.

"I'm fine-_ah_." He snapped, and even though I don't think he meant it to sound so harsh, it still made me jump. I turned and stared at him; he huddled over the grocery bag he'd set down on the desk, like an animal looming over a fresh kill he was unwilling to share. Now he looked like a giant black figure against the gray light of the window. Unconsciously I was slowly backing away.

He turned over his shoulder, not quite looking at me, but I saw the swing of his greasy long locks and he snarled loudly at me. "Just…just _go away_. _Go away!_"

I was more than happy to oblige.

I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the door, grabbing the doorknob on my way and pulling the door closed behind me. As soon as I heard it click, I let out a shaky gasp of relief. My heart was thundering hard against my chest and I pressed my hand against my chest to still it, but truthfully I wanted to burst into tears. I'd never been more scared in my life.

I didn't want to further infuriate him by loitering around outside the door. Without wasting another minute, I unstopped my cart and started pushing it down the hall and far from 310.

**/**

The trip home was spent with more paranoia then ever before. I was in a constant state of power-walking, looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed; making sure Creepo wasn't behind me, waiting to take his revenge for trespassing in his room. It wasn't until I was on the train –when I was really at the most vulnerable- that I felt just a bit relaxed.

Sitting down, leaning against the window with my folded-up umbrella nestled between my knees, I stared out the window into the night. The beaming towers of Gotham's financial sector loomed in the distance out of the darkness and I stared as long as I could as the train zoomed past. My eyes wandered around the graffiti-riddled car; every now and then, if I'm lucky, I'll come across a poem written on the seat across from me and I'll have a chance to read it before getting off at my stop. Most of the time though it's pretty offensive and poorly written derogative messages, things like _**Gordon sucks ass! **_And crudely written beneath it: _**so does yo momma.**_

A group of teenagers boarded a stop later with their skateboards but promptly ignored me, thankfully. An elderly lady was huddled in the far corner of the car, reading from a battered Bible. Close enough to me was a bum who kept taking swigs from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, but he was too out of it to pay attention to anyone. As the ride continued the distant Gotham metropolis disappeared from view as the train pulled further into the deepest, darkest corners of the Narrows, where people like me can barely scrape together enough money to make a living. Another six minutes and I unfolded my umbrella and got off the train.

My neighborhood was notorious for car theft, break-ins, and muggings, so I hurried along through the train station as quickly as I could, ignoring the pleas for coin from the homeless people and trying my best to dodge the drunkards stumbling out of the pubs. Just before reaching my door I think I heard a gunshot (although I suppose it could have been a car back-firing), but I was more than happy to get inside.

I was chilled to the bone, pushing on my front door because it was stuck again, and once I gave it a final push I nearly went flying face first into the floor. I closed the door and peeled off my raincoat, hanging it up on the hook, and let out a deep sigh. I can't remember the last time I'd been so happy to be home.

I was greeted immediately by Henry, my tortoise-shell majesty, who came running up to meow loudly for his dinner. I dropped my purse on the nearest chair and wandered into the kitchen, Henry fast on my heels, and checked the fridge for something to make for dinner. I found half a can of tuna, forked it onto a plate, and set it down for his majesty, who chowed down happily. Sighing, I searched the fridge for something to make, having no appetite but knowing I had to eat something. Finally I decided on macaroni and cheese, so I filled a pot with water and stuck it on the burner. While I waited for the water to boil, I poured myself a glass of cheap vodka I had stored in the fridge and collapsed down in front of the television. Tonight felt like a night for bad television and junk food.

Henry scared me half to death by jumping up while I was sipping my vodka. His highness was apparently full from his dinner and was now looking for the appropriate amount of attention before he'd go to my bedroom and make himself comfortable on one of the pillows. I stroked him idly, sipping my vodka, and letting my head fall back against the couch.

I still had a sick feeling in my stomach about Creepo in 310. He hadn't really done anything except show his obvious annoyance of my presence in his room…so why had I been so terrified? There was something about him that was just so…creepy and unsettling, and even though he hadn't really said or done anything obscenely horrible, I felt uncomfortable as though he had done something to physically hurt me.

But then I shook my head, exasperated. You've dealt with tons of creepy guests, Jane, it's not like he's the first ever, if anything he's more standoffish than the rest. So why are you upset about what happened? What even happened? Nothing happened.

I stood up and made my macaroni idly, sipping vodka like it was water, not bothering to change out of my uniform because I figured I'd be shoving off to bed soon anyway. Looking out the tiny kitchen window I could see it was really starting to pour; the thunder rolled heavily over my head and for a moment I thought about checking the weather network, but it seemed pointless since it rained all damn week and would probably continue to rain for the rest of the week.

When my macaroni was ready, I slopped it into a bowl and went back into the living room. I nudged Henry to the other end of the couch and sat back down to flip through the channels. I only had basic cable, and boy do I mean _basic_, since I only got six channels. Two of them were out of service, one was the weather network that predicted, yup, perpetual rain for the eternity of Gotham; another was the home-shopping network, advertising a porcelain doll, and the third –

"_We now return to our third-part documentary on Arkham Asylum."_

I groaned, _sooo_ not in the mood for a movie about a mental institution; we heard enough about the damn place in the newspapers and hell, it wasn't even that far away. A cheap taxi ride would take you right up to the front doors of the intensive treatment building (Polly did it once on Halloween on a dare, said it cost something like $14). Just as I went to change the channel, the clicker clattered to the floor and I couldn't be bothered to reach and pick it up. Sighing, I put up my feet, chewed idly on my cheesy pasta, and stared blankly at the TV.

"_Here at Arkham Asylum, we take the physical, emotional, and especially mental health of our patients to a new level,_" lectured an older, unappealing man in an interview, sitting in a very large and very posh-looking office, wearing a navy blue suit, and carrying himself with what looked to be a great deal of self-righteousness. The caption labeled him as Warden Quincy Sharp.

"_Through intensive training and years of experience, Arkham's staff - consisting of doctors, nurses, and interns of all fields and specialties - are here to serve our patients to the best of their ability. The quality and quantity of our trained professionals adhere to the needs of all patients, both low-risk and high-risk._" Sharp droned on in a self-important manner. "_This year I am happy to welcome our best and brightest psycho pharmacologist, Dr. Jonathan Crane, as head of Arkham's research department, to promote positive change in the ways of medicinal research."_

Warden Sharp disappeared in the next clip, and in his place, seated in a very posh winged chair, was a young and very, _very_ attractive young man. Immediately I stopped chewing my macaroni and my eyebrows rose with piqued interest. The caption labeled him as Dr. Jonathan Crane, head of Arkham's research department.

This Dr. Crane smiled coolly into the camera, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands together, as though he were the psychologist about to tuck in to a session with a patient. His crystal blue eyes were piercing. "_Hello Gotham_."

I really couldn't help but grin; this Dr. Jonathan Crane was very, very good-looking. He dressed sharply and kept his hair a good way…if only he got rid of those goofy glasses, they distracted from his big crystal blue eyes. He seemed like a gentle man, a little young to have such a big position at Arkham Asylum, so he was probably brilliant…he probably owned a penthouse in downtown Gotham and had a beautiful girlfriend. I shook my head idly; why couldn't we have more men like that around the Narrows?

Dr. Crane narrowed his eyes to the camera. _"Arkham Asylum was built on the foundation of providing quality care for those who need it most; that is why we are taking our methods of research to higher levels."_

I leaned against my fist, smiling at the television. If it was assured Dr. Crane would be my doctor, going to Arkham wouldn't be so bad.

"_The basis of research we have decided to focus on, in terms of Gotham's unique statistics, is fear. The staggering increase of Gotham City's crime levels takes a toll on all good law-abiding citizens. These fears will fuel even the most harmless person into unspeakable actions and muddled mental health. By focusing our research on what patients are exhibiting by way of fear, we can establish more efficient ways of treatment-ment-ment-ment-"_

Thunder rolled heavily overhead and the TV, as well as all the lights, died suddenly and the apartment was shrouded in darkness. I sighed in annoyance, deciding this was probably just as good a sign as any to go to bed. Taking my unfinished bowl of macaroni to the kitchen, I scraped the leftovers into the garbage and laid the bowl into the sink.

I felt physically and emotionally exhausted as I wandered into the bedroom and unzipped my little maid dress. Henry was nowhere to be seen of course, his majesty was afraid of thunder and lightning. Stepping out of my dress I collapsed into bed, not bothering to pull on my nighty. I pulled my quilt up over my body, curled up on my side, and let out a great heavy sigh of disappointment. I felt so happy to be in bed but at the same time I felt sad because when I woke up I'd have to get up and head back to that dreaded hotel, where I'd get yelled at by Estelle and freaked out by Creepo.

The rain pitter-pattered loudly outside my window on the cast iron fire escape, creating somewhat soothing white noise to fall asleep to, and once the thunder and lightning died down Henry jumped up on the bed to make himself comfortable next to me on the bedspread. I stroked his fur, watching as he stretched himself out and went to sleep, and an uneasy feeling pitted up in my stomach.

Maybe…_maybe_ if I was really lucky, Creepo was offended enough by my presence in his room that he checked out and I'd go to clean 310 tomorrow with all evidence of him completely gone, not that there was much to begin with. But I had a strange feeling, that even when he was long gone, 310 would never really feel the same…like a room you know someone was murdered in: it would always carry that creepy feeling of unwelcome.

Full from the macaroni, and warm from the covers, I curled up, closed my eyes, and in the instant I forgot about all things going wrong at the time, I let my mind wander. Exhausted, I gave away to sleep, and I'm not afraid to admit that I really, really wished I would have a sex dream about Dr. Jonathan Crane.

**/**

The next morning, I was happy to be on my way to the Palace at a more reasonable hour; no more stupid housekeeping meetings at an ungodly hour in the morning. Surprise, surprise, it was still raining, but I'd pretty much come to expect that.

Martin was reading his morning paper when I came inside, wishing him a good morning as I passed him to go to the break room. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see Polly sitting at the table, clenching a mug between her hands. She looked sick; all blood had drained from her face, and her cheeks were red and sticky as though she'd been crying.

I sighed. Maybe she'd been harassed by another one of our classy guests. Unfortunately Polly's looks don't help when lecherous guests are hounding her for extra toiletries and towels. She's complained of being groped once or twice in the past. Men in this city were such pigs.

"Morning. Are you okay?" I asked Polly over my shoulder as I hung up my coat.

I heard her suck in a deep breath and then let it out in a sad-sounding sigh. "No, I'm not okay. I found child porn in 406."

I spun around, my purse nearly dropping out of my hands, staring at her positively aghast. "What? Polly, are you serious?"

Polly let out a sob, putting down the mug she was holding and pressing her palms to her face. "Yeah, a whole shoebox full of it. The _bastard_ must have forgotten it!"

I pulled a chair up next to her and sat down, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She was quietly crying. I felt so terrible for her; we sure see some awful shit in this line of work, but _child porn_? And why Polly? What had Polly ever done to anyone that she'd have to show up to work, go to clean a room and have to be faced with child pornography?

I rubbed Polly's shoulder; I wanted to offer her some comforting words but what would I say? 'Sorry you found child porn, don't worry, it'll get better'?

"Did you call the cops?" I asked, going with logical instead of comforting words.

Polly shook her head, wiping away her tears with her fingertips. "I told Estelle. She said there was no point, that GCPD wouldn't come to the Narrows for something like that."

I scowled deeply; sure we condone a number of illegal activity that we should probably report and don't, but I figured Estelle would at least have the decency to report something of this magnitude. I sat back in my seat, perfectly annoyed. "I'm pretty sure they would."

"Yeah, well…" Polly leaned into her open hand. "Try telling that to Estelle."

I wanted to hug her. I wished that I had the authority to tell her to go home and rest up, do whatever she needed to do to recover from this. Unfortunately I couldn't, and Polly could come and sit down here for as long as she could and then have to continue on working knowing fully well that we weren't even going to report this finding to the police. Fuck, it pissed me off, it _really _pissed me off that Estelle would insist the police wouldn't even come to the Palace for something like this.

What else could be done? Obviously the disgusting creep had taken off, never to be seen or heard from again, unless he came back like an idiot and politely asked, "Yes, hello, I was staying here a few days ago, up on your fourth floor, and I do believe I've left something behind that belongs to me, yes, a shoebox. Yes, it contained some very…some very important photographs and I would very much like to have them back."

I shuddered, huddling my arms to my body and staring at Polly, who just stared down at the table and didn't move. Then I sat up, an idea suddenly popping into my head. If our housekeeper wasn't going to do a damn thing about it, maybe we could.

"What was his name," I asked, and then realized that she probably didn't know it, but I was determined. "You could call in an anonymous tip to the police."

Polly's big sad eyes looked up at me and they seemed to glimmer with just a little bit of hope. She bit down on her lower lip, staring at me, as though she was seriously considering it, and then she nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

We were both up in a shot, moving towards the door and startling Martin as we ambushed him at the front desk. Polly was adamant. "Martin, where's the guestbook?"

"Oh, uh…" Martin recovered, and then reached down behind the desk. He brought up our big leather-bound guestbook and set it down flat on the countertop. "Here it is."

Polly spun it around and opened it up in a hurry. As I watched the list of names go by, it crossed my mind of course that this guy had used a fake name. We rarely get people who ever use their real names, in case of being found out, I suppose. But if this guy was foolish enough to leave behind a shoebox full of child pornographic pictures, well then maybe he was foolish enough to have signed his real name in the guest book. It was worth a shot and I was hopeful.

"Ah, finally." Polly said as she flattened the crease on the half-finished page halfway through the book. She laid her finger down on the paper and skimmed through the listing. It would have been handy if we listed guests by what floor we put them under, but we're not organized enough for that. I hardly know why we even keep a guest book most of the time, unless of course the police or private investigators are looking for someone in partic-

…That was when I saw it, popping out at me as though it screamed my name. My heart leapt up into my throat when I knew in an instant who it was. Polly continued to skim along the page, looking for her perpetrator, but my eyes were glued on one entry, signed in big, black, sloppily-written handwriting:

**APRIL 19****TH**** GOTHAM PALACE HEIGHTS ROOM 310**

**jack jay**

**/**

_A/N: Sorry, not a ton of our favourite guy. More in the next chapter, I promise!_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Many thanks to **HoistTheColours**, **KatieMarrie**, **Dancing-Pinky-Flower**, **Southern Façade**, **corbsxx**, **anna**, **Yuki Hikari**, **scorpiofreak**, **Laurenmlbc**, and **FrenzyWhispers **for your reviews. You guys are seriously amazing! Enjoy the chapter.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Four**

**/**

End of the day, dreaded end of the day, and I stood in front of the door, starring hard at the misaligned brass numbers that read 310, silently hoping, _praying_, that he wouldn't be in. I raised my master key to the door, pausing to take a deep breath, and rapped three times clearly. "Housekeeping!"

I had hoped that, following my trespassing into his room yesterday, he would have checked out and moved on, but according to the guest book there was no such luck. Martin likes to keep track of who checks in and checks out by way of our guest book, and it looked like "Jack" was in for at least another day. Whatever. If he was here to stay, then so be it. But please, please, _please_, Mr. Jack Jay, please be out.

Forget it. Within a moment of rapping the door I heard movement from within, deep thudding and the shuffling of papers is what it sounded like; a loud thud erupted, like something hitting the floor, and then heavy footfalls as they neared the door. Sucking in a breath, I stepped back from the door and my heart began to race. I clutched my master key in my hand so hard it hurt as the footsteps came closer and closer.

All sounds paused for a moment right before the door, and I had a sick feeling he was looking at me through the peephole. I swallowed tightly and held my chin up high, trying to be still but I was already starting to shake a little. There wasn't a sound in the hallway except the thundering of my heart as it slammed against my ribcage, but I was determined to stay solid, no matter how much Mr. Jack Jay creeped me out.

I listened, and then blinked in confusion as I heard footsteps…moving away from the door. He _had_ been looking at me through the peephole. He was probably upset to see that I was back and decided he wouldn't bother letting me in, that maybe if he ignored me I'd go away, and hell I was half-considering it. If I didn't have to step into that room, if I didn't have to change the sheets, if I didn't have the see the scars on his face _ever again_, I'd have been one happy maid and for once my job wouldn't have sucked so bad.

Nevertheless, I had to get in there, so I sighed solemnly. As much as I wanted to ignore 310 altogether, there was no way I'd get away with it. Mr. Jack Jay had been there two nights already, and Estelle was like a Nazi when it came to changing the sheets. She kept track of the sheets we used and noticed when we didn't change one of the beds. So unless Mr. Jack Jay was prepared to verbally tell me to _fuck off_, I had to get into 310 and change the sheets.

Swallowing tightly, I rapped on the door three more times with a bit more conviction. I had to let him know I wouldn't go away unless he came to the door and told me to go away. "Housekeeping!"

A low, exasperated growl came from somewhere behind the door and my heart dropped down into my stomach. I had the greatest urge to unstop my cart and take off down the hall, but then I shook it off. _Don't be such a wimp, Jane._

I listened but there were no more sounds of movement. It occurred to me that he was sitting inside, getting more and more frustrated and annoyed, but I couldn't leave unless he told me to, so there I stood patiently waiting, tapping my feet to distract from my sheer nervousness.

I listened and I waited, but I heard nothing. I closed my eyes tightly. Please, Mr. Jack Jay, don't make me rap the door again and further infuriate you. Just come to the door and tell me to go away, and I'll go away, I promise you. But please, _please_ don't make me rap the door again.

I heard it again, that frustrated snarl from within the room, and then movement coming towards the door. Sounded like footsteps in long, hard strides that stopped right before the door, and then there was silence. I swallowed hard as I realized the only thing between me and him was the door, and he might open it at any second.

A moment later the doorknob creaked and slowly the door opened inch by inch. All I could see for moments was blackness; I assumed he hadn't turned on the lights in the room. And then his eyes appeared as he peered around the door, glaring at me from the darkness. Eyes like black pearls, they pierced me like needles and I'm sure to any bystander walking by, I would have looked visibly shaken. He was silent, starring narrowly at me, as if waiting for me to make my case, like the crazy man answering the door to a solicitor.

I cleared my throat. "Housekeeping, sir." I affirmed in a shaky little girl voice.

He remained still, studying me silently, and then his brow furrowed just a little and he squinted at me. "What do you want?"

I was taken aback by his voice; all I had ever heard from him before was the deep growls and throaty snarls, like the sounds of a temperamental animal. Now with this request of information, his voice was low and inquisitive, suspicious, but not threatening.

I willed myself to relax. He seemed a little perturbed, maybe, but not angry. "I'm here to change the sheets, sir."

He continued to stare at me silently, as though assessing whether I was really there to change the sheets or if I was there to steal all his things. Then, letting out an exasperated sigh through his flared nostrils, he began to move. "Just a minute."

He closed the door and I let out a breath of relief, turning around to gather the clean bed sheets I brought with me. I listened through the door and heard more thuds and footsteps, and as I patiently waited with the sheets in my arms, I looked down the length of the hallway. At the far end of the hall, a man and a woman came stumbling up the stairs, laughing and holding onto each other as they staggered to their room. A lot of drunken giggling ensued until they finally made their way in through the door and slammed it shut behind them. I sighed. Bet that room was going to be fun to clean in the morning.

While my attention was turned down the hall, the chain on the door to 310 was released from the lock and the door was opened fully.

I turned to face him and I was instantly startled; he stood in the doorway wearing clothes that actually fit, and he was surprisingly lanky. He wore a dirty gray T-shirt and a beat-up pair of black slacks. Catching a glimpse of his bare arms I was surprised to see they were toned but he was wearing those gloves, the ones cut off at the knuckles. I was completely surprised. He wasn't really as big as I thought he had been, now that he was wearing clothes that fit him properly. Those other clothes, the ones that were too big, made him look like a giant, unwashed, unshaved, insane mountain-man who might slit your throat as you walked down the hall. But truly he was tall and skinny, probably couldn't throw a punch to save his life…kind of like me.

But I looked up into his face and there were those scars. They pursed his lips and made him look menacing and I still hated them.

I watched as he took me in quicker than any man has done before, his eyes fleeting down to my feet and then up to the top of my head, as though assessing just who he was letting in his room. He gave me a slightly bored and unimpressed look and stepped out of the doorway, coming out into the hall and into the light. He walked with his shoulders hunched right up and went to lean against the wall. Looking down at the floor, he gestured to the door with his arm. "It's all yours."

I managed a tiny courteous smile but he wouldn't even look at me. Leaning against the wall he crossed his legs at the ankle and stuck his hands in his pockets, staring down at the carpet. Feeling somewhat defeated, I walked into the room with the bed sheets in my arms, but then I stopped just before the bed.

Something was…different, but I couldn't tell what exactly. The bed was in the same place, and so was the television. The desk that lined the far wall under the window had an open notebook on the surface and the desk lamp was turned on, but that wasn't it…something was different about the room and I couldn't tell what.

Shaking my head, convinced it was just the light playing tricks on me, I pulled the chair out from under the desk and set down the sheets and everything on it. The room was eerily cold and quiet, and I vowed to go about my housekeeping duties just as quick as I could.

I wasted no time. I stripped the bed, peeled off the bed sheets and the pillow cases and the floral duvet cover. Bundling them up into my arms, I walked towards the door and came into the hallway to shove them all in my laundry basket. I was more then aware of his presence beside me but the fact that he was being so quiet unnerved me more then anything. I bent down to gather the fresh pillow cases from a different compartment in the cart and stood up to see him biting his cuticles and staring out the window, his face covered by lengths of greasy hair.

As I moved into the room I thought about how he was so apprehensive, he seemed so uncomfortable, he never wanted me to see his face. It wasn't hard to tell why; he was obviously self-conscious about the scars. They did make him look pretty demonic, after all, and he probably knew it more than anyone.

As I went about putting on the new pillowcases, and stretching the mattress cover over the mattress, I noticed the amount of light coming in from the window. As I reached for the clean duvet cover, I suddenly noticed what was wrong with the room.

The curtains…and the curtain rod…they were missing.

We have these really thick curtains on big brass curtain rods. They're ugly as hell and really outdated, but they're the best we can afford on budget, according to Estelle. I stood, staring at the window, and realized that yes, the curtain rod and the heavy curtains were gone. But where could they have gone? Did he remove them? And why?

A loud sigh of exasperation came from the hallway, and snapping back to reality I went about changing the duvet cover as quickly as I could. He seemed pissed off enough as it was, no need lolly-gagging and making it worse. When all was said and done, I fluffed up the pillows, straightened out the duvet so that the bed looked more then presentable. I wanted to check the garbage cans and the bathroom, but I had a feeling I had more then outstayed my welcome, so I gathered the dirty laundry and went towards the door.

He was loitering outside the door, staring out the window with his hands on his hips. As soon as I came out I got another good look at him. The clothes, the ones that now fit, were dirty. The gray T-shirt he wore seemed to be covered with dirt and splotches of white plaster. Did he work in construction? Maybe he was unemployed and these were clothes he picked up from the shelter? His hair looked so greasy and wavy; it looked like it was naturally curly, I bet if only he'd wash his hair, it would look about a million times better.

But oh well, I was here to clean the rooms for the guests, not tell them what to wear and what to do with their hair.

I cleared my throat a little and he turned towards me, raising his eyes and staring at me, and then looked at the sheets in my arms. I swallowed tightly as he pinned me with this squinting look of _well, are you done yet? _And I gave him a meek smile.

"All done," I croaked, and cleared my throat. "Everything's clean."

Letting out what sounded like a sigh of great relief, he let his arms fall to his sides and he moved around the cart. I hopped to the side so I didn't block his way into the room. I looked up at him as he walked past me and I glimpsed the scars for only a moment before he turned his head towards me sharply, giving me a dirty look, and then he went into 310 and slammed the door behind him.

I stared at the door for a few moments, trying to comprehend what had happened exactly, before I turned around and threw everything into my laundry basket. Giving 310 a glare, I unstopped my cart and started pushing it down the hall.

I know, I know, I shouldn't be taking it so personally, and I don't usually. No one ever goes out of their way to say _hey, the housekeeping on the third floor was really spectacular; your maid is doing a great job_. It's always been a really thankless job. I just really hate it when especially ugly and especially creepy guests turn out be really big _assholes_.

But whatever. It was the end of the day. Time to go home.

**/**

I took my time throwing all the dirty sheets and everything into the laundry basket for tomorrow, and then I locked everything up. I made my way slowly down the staircase, said hi to Martin who was manning the desk, and went into the break room to collect my stuff.

There was Polly, yet again. She was buttoning up her coat when I walked in. She turned and looked at me over her shoulder, smiling just a little. "Hey Janey."

"Hey," I said in greeting, and then I frowned. "Did you just finish?"

"Yeah," Polly said with a great big sigh. "Someone made a complete mess out of 404 took me almost two and a half hours to get everything done."

I shook my head. Of all days for her to have to stay behind almost two hours, it had to be the day she found child porn and was in a particularly fragile state. I sighed heavily, reached for my jacket, and went to throw it around my shoulders. "I think I'm gonna get a cheeseburger and a shake. You wanna come with?"

Polly turned and looked at me wide-eyed, and then she smiled just a little. "Yeah, I think I could use a little junk after everything that's happened today."

We both grabbed our purses, said goodnight to Martin, and headed out the foyer door. For once it wasn't raining, but it was chilly so I pulled the throws of my jacket together. I looked up and down the street; it's amazing how busy the Narrows are when the rain stops. There was activity abuzz. "Where's the nearest burger joint?"

"Hmm," Polly looked up and down the road, and then she raised her arm to hail a taxi. "I know a place, about six blocks from here towards the river."

Polly scanned down the road, looking for a taxi so that she might wave to it and get him to stop for us. In the meantime, I huddled myself up and bounced a little on the balls of my feet to warm up. Sometimes the maid uniform really sucks, especially when it's really chilly out and we have to walk around with bare calves.

Cars streamed past us, pedestrians walked lazily across the street. A group of street kids were playing some sort of card game on the steps of an apartment building across the road from us, laughing and making jokes. Men who were seemingly taken alive by their facial hair walked idly along, drinking from bottles. Looking down the other way, about two doors down from the Palace, I could see the usual line up of prostitutes hanging out in front of the drug store, smoking cigarettes, talking to each other, and trying to tempt whoever approached them by wiggling their leather-clad asses or sticking out their legs.

Suddenly I saw a rather tall figure come lumbering towards them, further up the sidewalk. Squinting my eyes just a little to focus better, I realized who it was. Mr. Jack Jay, walking along wearing that big-ass raincoat I had seen him in the first night. It reeled in my head for a moment: when had he gone out? He went back into 310 as soon as I'd cleaned it, when had he slipped through the hallway and left the hotel?

I shook my head, deciding it wasn't important, but I watched him as long as I could, scowling hatefully at him for being such a prick. He really stuck out like a sore thumb, mostly due to the disgusting state of his hair and the way he walked with his shoulders hunched right up. His eyes were right down to the pavement and he didn't look up until one of the prostitutes reached out and touched his arm.

I watched carefully as he stopped and turned to look the hooker right in the face. I could see that nothing was said, but she recoiled at the sight of his scars as though they burned her, and she pulled her hand right from him as though he'd bitten it. The other girls, the surrounding hookers, regarded him with the same amount of disgust and huddled back, given him looks of disdain. One of the girls said something that was obviously derogative towards him, but I was too far away to hear.

"Oh, there's one! Taxi! TAXI!" Polly was screaming and waving wildly at my side, but I continued to watch Mr. Jack Jay.

As soon as it was pretty obvious the hookers were not going to tempt him to partake in their nightly pleasures, he turned away from them and continued to walk away with conviction in his steps. The hookers watched him go, frowning and talking to each other. One of them actually pointed to her own mouth, as though intimating to her friends the scars on his face.

I frowned, regarding him with a touch of sympathy as he slowly made his way down the sidewalk. It had occurred to me, the first time I really had a good look at him, that he was all-in-all a very attractive man. He would have had one of those perfect male faces with the most flawless features. He was like a beautiful mask that had been cracked and horribly disfigured by the scars, and so now everyone recoiled from him, the mask of tragedy, whatever the tragedy had been.

I wondered what it must have been like. Surely he hadn't had those scars all his life. I was positive he'd had had quite a bit of amorous attention from all the ladies before he had the scars. But now that he had them, everyone recoiled from him in horror, especially women, like he was some kind of animal.

I sighed heavily. No wonder he was so self-conscious; no wonder he always hid his face around me. He probably figured I would just stare at them in horror like everyone else did.

Seemed to me like he needed a friend.

He came lumbering closer and I turned my head away so that he wouldn't see me. The last thing I needed that day was for Creepo to see me waiting outside the hotel for a taxi cab. I don't know why, but I felt like I'd die of embarrassment if he saw me, and especially if I saw those hookers repel in disgust from him like he was a leper.

Luckily Polly flagged down a taxi, which pulled up to the curve, and Polly grabbed my arm and gave me a smile. "Our first piece of luck today. C'mon Janey."

She pulled me along and I watched my step as I climbed into the back of the taxi behind Polly, closing the door to keep the cold out. The taxi driver looked at us in the rearview mirror. "Where to, ladies?"

I vaguely heard Polly tell him the name of the burger place she wanted to go to, but I was distracted as I looked out the window in time to see Mr. Jack Jay push open the door of the Palace and disappear into the foyer of the hotel.

**/**

"So I called the anonymous tip line to crime-stoppers."

I was in the middle of taking a big bite of my burger, so I chewed away and nodded. "Oh yeah?"

Polly nodded, chewing on a French fry. "Yeah, I waited until Estelle left."

"So what happened?"

Polly shrugged her bony shoulders, swirling a French fry in a puddle of ketchup. "They asked me a ton of questions. They asked if I could bring in the uh, the evidence, but Estelle locked it in Mr. Halterstead's office."

I scowled. Did that seem inappropriate or what? _Hey Mr. Halterstead, one of the maids found a shoebox full of child pornographic images this morning. Yeah, we're not gonna call the cops, they're not gonna care. So here, you take it._

Then a frightening thought crossed my mind and my heart stopped for a split second. "Maybe it's his?"

Polly looked up at me, her eyes wide in sudden realization, and she nodded her head very slowly. "Maybe."

We both laughed. We couldn't help it; you take one look at Mr. Halterstead and you know there's something strange about him but you just can't quite put your finger on it. Although I'm sure it's safe to say he wasn't a child pornographer; yes he was creepy but he wasn't _that _creepy. Then again, you never know who anyone is.

We were sitting in Bronco's Burger at a table pushed up against the very back corner of the place so we wouldn't have to listen to the rambunctious teens that swarmed in, or the couples that came in arguing about something. We had decided to go with the most monstrous, greasy burgers in the place, dripping with mayo and ketchup, complete with fries and the most delicious chocolate milkshakes you will ever find in Gotham. Yes it was heart-stopping and artery-clogging, but it was the best thing in all the world right there at that moment.

I swallowed the bite of my burger and wiped my hands with my napkin. "So what else did the cops ask you?"

Polly shrugged, munching away on a fry. "Well I gave them the name he wrote in the guestbook. Hopefully they'll be able to…track him or do whatever it is they do."

I looked at her with a small smile. "So safe to say they did want to know about it after all?"

Polly nodded, smiling back at me. "Yup. I don't know what Estelle was thinking. I don't know why Mr. Halterstead keeps her around."

I laughed and shook my head. "Probably because she knows everything and treats the place like a boot camp. That way _he_ doesn't have to come in all the time."

Polly grinned. "Hell, I'd love a job like that."

I nodded. "Me too."

We take every opportunity we have, really, to let off steam about Estelle because really, if anyone's ever gonna yell at you at the Palace, it's gonna be her. Martin never says a word against anyone and Mr. Halterstead's never around to say anything. There are days, like that one especially, where she really got under our skin and we just needed a bit of a breather to clear our heads and let everything out. Truth be told, I never wished any harm onto Estelle. I just sometimes wished she'd go away and never darken a doorway in the Palace again.

After our incredibly caloric dinner, with our stomachs bulging, we parted ways at Bronco's Burger and I began the trip home for the night, this time, thankfully, (and for once) not in the pouring rain.

**/**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Special thanks to **linalove, corbsxx, trickstersink, SleepyHeather, HoistTheColours, Arizo The Creative, Southern Facade, Laurenmlbc, **and **tomieharley** for your reviews! It has also come to my attention that a lot of people have added "Housekeeping" to their Favourites Stories List as well as Story Alert List, and to all those people, I thank you, and if you ever feel like dropping a review (constructive criticism always welcome) I'd love to hear from you. Enjoy the update, everyone. :)

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Five**

**/**

"Couple of things today, ladies. But before we get to them, I think there's something you should know."

It was our bi-weekly housekeeping meeting, and as per usual I was half-dead with lack of sleep, struggling to stay alert by sipping the scalding hot coffee-flavoured water that Estelle had prepared for us. Across the table Polly was rubbing her face and sitting next to her was Lois filing away idly at her nails. I guess you could say we all came to the conclusion that having these meetings twice a week was a burden on us all.

Estelle was her usual grumbling self, although this morning she seemed to have something on her mind. She had come in, late of course, but not nearly as red-faced and out-of-breath as usual. When she sat down she folded her hands together, as though someone in the hotel had passed away and she had gathered us together to lament the death. The unusual calm sound of her voice piqued my interest right away, especially when she said she had something to tell us.

She went around the table, looking at each of us, and then she sighed a little. "As you may or may not know, there was a considerable amount of child pornography found in one of the rooms."

I looked right at her, my eyes bulging open, which I probably shouldn't have done. If Estelle had been looking in my direction, she probably would have figured out that I knew about it. Carefully I looked at Polly across the table, but she had her eyes turned right down to the table, picking at her fingernails. Lois had ceased filing her nails and looked up at Estelle, staring with her gum about to fall out of her mouth.

Estelle waved her hands dismissively at us. "I just want you all to know that the police have been informed and they came by yesterday to collect names and the evidence. The officer talked to Martin and...y'know, got everything he needed." Estelle sighed heavily. "Martin's been told to keep a look-out for any more suspicious characters coming into the hotel, and Mr. Halterstead has been notified. The reason I wanted to start the meeting with this news is because I felt you all deserved to know."

Holy shit. The policehad come by? I stole a glance at Polly, who was still looking down at the table, but I noticed she was frowning, and her cheeks were a little pink. Whether she was hiding her face from embarrassment or anger, I couldn't tell. I had a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that the police officer had come by, and Estelle knew the only other person in the hotel who knew about the gruesome discovery was Polly. Had she given Polly shit for calling the anonymous tipsters line?

"And," Estelle added, drawing my attention. "We wanted you all to know that it's been taken care of, all right?"

She went around the table and looked at us pointedly, and I found myself nodding away but keeping my lips drawn tight together. Estelle looked about as pleased about the whole thing as she was when we left our carts unattended, and I saw just the slightest glimpse of disgust directed right at Polly before Estelle moved to her clipboard. I ground my fingers into fists and gave Estelle, right for a moment, the meanest look I could ever fathom.

"All right, down to business. We're not here for gossip and news, am I right? Hmm? We've got a job to do." Estelle said, plucking a red pen from behind her ear, the thin red shaft disappearing in her bulging fingers, and she began going down her telltale clipboard of comments and complaints. "Customer complaints, let's begin with floor two, Lois..."

/

"She felt we all deserved to know? Yeah right, what a crock of shit." Polly grumbled as we made our way up the stairs side by side. Polly stomped on every single step as we went, her cheeks burning with fury. "Y'know if I hadn't made that call to the anonymous tipster line, I bet she would have taken the whole thing right to her goddamn coffin."

"Wouldn't surprise me," I agreed, shrugging my shoulders, and clutching the handrail on the stairwell just a little harder than usual. "Did she give you any shit for calling it in?"

"Of course she did, Jane." Polly snapped, a little harshly. "The only two who knew about it were me and her...well, and you. But you weren't the one who called it in, were you?" She sighed heavily. "Jesus, you try and do the right thing and it all just blows up in your face!"

We stopped at the third floor on the landing, before she began the ascent up to the fourth floor. I stopped her, taking her elbow really gently, because she looked like she was going to start crying. Polly turned around and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm okay, it's just...you can't do anything right in this city, can you?"

I rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "It'll be okay, right? I mean, maybe Estelle's mad but she didn't fire you."

Polly sniffed, bringing her wrist up to her nose, and then she nodded. "Yeah, but she said if I ever went against her word again she'd make sure I never worked in this town again."

I rolled my eyes, exasperated. "Oh sure, she'd like to have that much control. Just try not to worry about it, okay? We're here early, and we'll finish up early, right?"

That was the only piece of good news on the days we have meetings. Go to the meeting, start early, finish early, and get the hell out of the hotel for the day. And Polly needed it more than me. I watched her make her slow way up the stairs and shook my head. How shitty could it get? First you find the damn child porn, then you get in trouble for reporting the child porn. She was right. Even if you're the most innocent person in Gotham, you really can't do anything right.

/

The morning and all ugliness between Jane and Estelle aside, it had turned out to be the best day in weeks. All of the rooms on the third floor were either vacant or had hardly any need of cleaning. By the time 2:00pm rolled around, I had only one more room to go before I could pack up and take off.

The last room to go, of course, was 310. But I was feeling strangely optimistic about it. Having remembered watching how the prostitutes pulled from Jack like he was some kind of monster stuck with me and, I'm not ashamed to admit, really tugged on my heart a little bit. Sure the guy had those disfiguring scars, but he didn't deserve to be treated like _that_. No one deserved to be treated like that.

So I was really determined to show him that his scars didn't bother me. And yeah, I know what you're thinking...the scars _did_ bother me. ...But I was determined to try. And besides, I had been in a really good mood all day (save for the meeting) after realizing there really wasn't much to do and the day was going to be a cakewalk, so I was feeling more than generous.

I stopped my cart outside 310 and knocked on the door three times with conviction, and then, placing my hands behind my back, I started to rock on the balls of my feet, chewing on my bottom lip. Maybe I'd be able to leave by 4:00, and then I'd be able to get home while it was still light outside.

The door opened slowly and I was pulled from my happy thoughts of leaving earlier then usual. Out of the darkness I could see the glare of the chain that bound the door, and I could see those brown eyes staring at me like I was an intruder trespassing on his property.

It startled me at first, but then I swallowed and smiled. "Good afternoon. Housekeeping."

I heard him inhale sharply and my smile faltered. For a split second his eyes fleeted up and down my form just like he'd done the first time I'd come to the door. Did he not recognize me?

Then, just as I thought he wasn't going to say anything and I'd have to initiate some kind of conversation, he spoke. "You changed the sheets _yesterday_."

He growled it, just lowly, except maybe it only sounded like a growl because he was speaking right against the door. Either way, I ignored the ugliness in his voice and just shrugged my shoulders and smiled. "Yeah, I look after the beds on the whole floor-"

"You _changed_ the _sheets __**yesterday**_." He repeated rather sharply, growling furiously, his voice somewhat muddled against the door, and it made me flinch just the slightest.

I stared at him, into those deep brown eyes and I couldn't help but frown a little. Jeez, Mr. Jack Jay, I came up to the door with every intention of being nice, but he just wasn't going to make it any easier, was he?

I frowned at him and shook my head just a little, not sure what else to do. "I'm just going to make the bed, sir."

He seemed more suspicious and mistrustful then usual. He stared at me for another few minutes, his chocolate brown eyes squinting at me from the darkness, and I stared back at him with what was probably an expression of _what?_ I was a 5'6, 24-year-old with no muscles and not one threatening bone in my body. What was the deal?

Jack let out a strained sigh through his flared nostrils and slammed the door shut, which made me jump a little. I thought for sure he was going to retreat into his room and not even bother telling me to _fuck off, _but then I heard the noise of the chain rattling.

A minute later he swung the door wide open and although it scared me at first, I was able to maintain my composure. He was standing in the darkness of the door, the light from the hall spilling in on him, lighting up his white face and those dark eyes that stared at me viciously. He looked down at me with those hooded eyes, resting his hands on either side of the doorframe, before taking a step out and coming into the light where I could see him perfectly.

His sudden movement reminded me of how a terrifying creature might leap forward to scare the shit out of its prey. He leaned forward in a very confrontation manner, his eyes bearing into me, and although my heart began to race just a little and something inside my head was telling me to book it down the hallway, I took in a deep breath and stood still.

His eyes were full of the same meanness I had seen the first night we clapped eyes on each other, downstairs in the lobby. The way he held out his arms and clenched opposite ends of the doorframe, I could see the veins traveling through his toned forearms, white skin disappearing behind a really filthy navy blue cotton T-shirt.

Trying desperately hard not to go into full panic mode, for he truly did _not _want me in his room, I swallowed and took a moment to do what I had intended to do before knocking on his door.

I looked up into his face and stared at the scars. They really didn't seem all that bad...once you got over the initial shock when seeing them for the first time. All it looked like, really, was that someone had stitched up his face...and yes, regrettably, done a fairly shoddy job of it too. Bubbling flesh that made otherwise plump, pink lips seem gnarled; a strange disfiguration that framed what was probably a dashing smile; the comedic mask dropped and cracked from side to side, from ear to ear. But they really weren't all that...bad. Not really.

The sound of him breathing broke me from my trance of staring at his scars, and I looked up into his brown eyes, which were not filled with the usual sinisterness as before. They seemed a little lighter, and his overall expression seemed a little...confused.

I gave him the biggest smile I could, just dying to hold out my arms and say _See? They're not all that bad._

Eyes fixed on me with that same calculating gaze, and Jack lowered his arms from the doorframe and stepped out of the doorway, looking down at me as though I were the most curious creature he had ever seen.

I continued to smile as he so very slowly stepped away from the doorframe, staring at me, and then I made a nervous gesture towards the room with my arm. "I'm just gonna make the bed, won't be a minute."

And then, as quickly as I could steal away from his eyes, I snuck into the room and let out a breath of relief. Sure I was trying to make him feel more...welcome then before, but holy Hell was he a strange guy.

I moved into the room, which had scarcely changed since I had changed the sheets. The curtain and the curtain rod were still missing from the window, I noticed, but other than that the room seemed to be in its usual uninteresting shape. I shivered just a little as cold air hit my calves and I noticed he had the window wide open, letting in the cool rainy air. That was a little unusual...but hey, maybe he came from a colder climate then Gotham's.

I went to work immediately, straightening out the sheets and smoothing them over with the flat of my palm, and tugging the duvet covers up and tucking them in under the pillows, which I smacked a few times to make them fluffier. I can't tell you what a relief it was to make a bed in one of the rooms and not come across a filthy magazine, or a used condom, or strange stains on the sheets. And looking at the bedside table, all he kept close was a beat-up black wallet and a little silver tin can that I assumed was shoe polish, since I didn't read the label.

It kind of made me smile; our strangest guest was quite frankly one of the most normal.

I was shivering by the time I stood up and examined the bed, which looked good enough to sleep in, and stealing a glance at my watch I was suddenly over the moon, realizing it was only 2:50 and I was all done for the day!

I damn near skipped out of the room, both excited to leave the chilly room and to make my way home the at earliest time in months. Out in the hallway, Jack Jay had taken up his usual post leaning against the wall and staring out the window. I nearly tripped over his long feet, crossed at the ankle, as I came bounding out of the room and went to unstop my cart.

"All done!" I said, looking over at him and smiling. He stared at me with those dark hooded eyes, his lips in a real downturn frown, and I could feel his hard gaze on me as I unstopped the cart and started to move down the hallway, not looking behind me when I heard the door slam shut. I raced down the hall towards the laundry room, where I stopped the cart and unloaded all the dirty sheets and pillow cases into one of the laundry baskets.

Smiling to myself as I piled everything into the basket, I wondered what I would do for the rest of the afternoon. It was still light out, so there wasn't really any immediate need to head home right away. Maybe I'd get an early supper, pick up a newspaper, and have a lazy afternoon out in the Narrows, before night fell. Maybe I could stop at a sandwich shop, get a sandwich and a coffee, and head home right away, where his majesty would definitely be looking for his dinner, and I could sit and maybe watch a horrible movie or two, hit the bathtub before bed, and retire early!

It all seemed too good to be true. And it was. I reached behind me to unlace my apron, turning around to head out the door, and stopped dead in my tracks by the colossal form standing in the doorway, cutting off my escape.

Estelle.

"Jane, you seem to be carrying way too many clean towels." She remarked gruffly, folding the giant hams she had for arms, and looking at my cart. "Are you replacing the towels in all the rooms?"

I fought the urge to sigh heavily, and dropped my hands before untying my apron. "Yes, Estelle. They've all got clean towels, every room that needed cleaning."

"Mmm hmm, so why have you got extras then?" She raised her eyes to me and gave me an accusing look, biting the insides of her cheeks to make herself appear more unhappy. She figured out, long ago, that the more unhappy she looked, the more nervous it made us. And when we're nervous, she figured we're easier to boss around. She's right.

I searched my mind for some kind of excuse, and gave her the truth, the only thing I could think of, really. "I didn't replace the towels in 310."

She stuck her fists on her sides and started tapping her foot. She leaned her head forward. "Why?"

"Uhh..." I swallowed. "Because the gentleman didn't need them."

"I see," she said, unimpressed. "Did you _ask _if he needed any?"

_Shit_. Estelle always seems to see right through me, and because I'm the world's worst liar, there really wasn't any point in trying to cover the fact that no, I hadn't asked Jack if he needed any towels. He didn't even seem to need them, since he didn't ever seem to wash his hair.

"No, Estelle, I didn't." I said, in a sad solemn defeat.

She snorted unhappily in her throat, which made me frown. "Well you wouldn't think of packing up for the day without doing your _job_, would you?"

I lifted my eyes and stared at her with a decent amount of hatred, not enough that she would see it really, but just enough so I wouldn't keep it all bottled in.

"No, Estelle. Of course not." And I bent down to pick up the extra towels I had stored in my cart.

She made an indignant sound in her throat and stomped away, and as I closed the door to the laundry room I could hear her heavy footsteps as she descended the stairs. She was probably making the rounds, harassing everyone because she didn't have anything better to do. It pissed me off to an extent, but at the same time she had a point. I hadn't bothered asking Jack if he needed towels because I was too happy about leaving early for the day. I hadn't really done my job.

I stepped up to 310 and knocked on the door hesitantly, because I knew Jack was going to be just _thrilled _to see me back for the second time in a day. I held the towels casually and waited for him to open the door and stare at me from the darkness, and then open the door fully and stare me down, trying to intimidate me and make me leave, despite the fact that I had taken the time and effort to be nice to him.

A few minutes rolled by and I heard nothing from inside the room. I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully and looked down the hallway, wondering if Estelle would fire me if I retreated from 310 and went home instead. All I'd have to do was hide the towels, and then she'd never know...unless Jack complained about the lack of clean towels, but somehow that didn't strike me as something he would concern himself with.

Sighing, I lifted my hand again and knocked three more times on the door. I stepped forward and pressed my ear to the oak but heard nothing, no sounds of life of any kind. No stomping around, no stuffing of papers, no coughing or hacking or sneezing or snorting, nothing. And it made me frown quizzically. Was he asleep? Maybe he had left the room? That seemed rather impossible, since he would have had to go past the laundry room to get to the stairs, and I don't think I was putting away the laundry long enough to not have noticed him going by. But still, he did have a strange way or misplacing himself, slipping out of the room when you never noticed him and returning not long afterwards.

It was entirely possible that he wasn't in the room. That's probably the only reason why I reached into one of my pockets and produced the master key, wherein I stuck the key in the lock, turned it, and let myself in.

The room seemed darker and colder then before, if that were even possible, and stepping inside I saw that the room was empty. The window had been closed and everything else was where it should have been. I closed the door behind me, shaking my head. Curiouser and curiouser, this Mr. Jack Jay, but I was relieved he wasn't around. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd be especially displeased to see me back trespassing in his room for the second time. So, I decided to get to work immediately and get out of there as quick as I could, before he came back.

I stepped inside the dark bathroom, and struggled to find the light switch. When I turned on the lights, I gasped as I was met with a very strange and _very_ unexpected sight.

There was the missing curtain!

It was covering the mirror, scrunched up in the corners behind the mount. I stepped inside, hugging the towels to my body, as I stared at the hideous curtain like a really bad wall-hanging. I took a moment to inspect the rest of the bathroom, but for the most part it all seemed the same. The toilet seat was up, the little complimentary soap-bar was lying still inside the soap dish of the shower, and the counter and sink seemed more-less clean and untouched. Everything was in its place, except there was the shower curtain rod, the obvious weapon of vandalism lying against the wall next to the toilet.

I scowled. What the hell had he been doing in here?

Sighing in complete annoyance, I put the towels on the counter next to the sink and walked towards the mirror. I tugged on the corner of the curtain, pulling it out from where it had been bunched up behind the mount. The curtain came away from the mirror as though it had melted, and suddenly I saw why he had covered it.

The mirror was broken.

I stepped back and examined it, feeling shocked and stunned. Off to the middle was a wide puncture, and the broken glass around it was intact in a spider web pattern that stretched to the mirror's frame. When the hell had this happened?

My initial reaction to the broken mirror was panic. What would have happened if Estelle found out about it? She'd have a fit, maybe even fire me, but of course I had to tell her about it! Even when Creepo checked out, someone else would say something about it, and then she'd know that I hadn't told her about it.

But to Hell with Estelle; how would Jack have reacted when he saw I had pried so far as to uncover what he was so obviously trying to hide?

I decided I'd deal with the broken mirror later so I moved to put the curtain back, but that was when I noticed odd, discoloured streams originate at the puncture and running down along the cracks of the broken glass. I leaned forward to get a better look and came to the conclusion that it was dried blood.

So he hadn't broken the mirror by smashing it with the curtain rod. Jack punched the mirror, and covered it with the curtain. Why?

I stared at the rippled pattern of broken glass sadly, a million tiny reflections frowning back at me. Mr. Jack Jay, what insecurities were you harbouring?

It was getting late, and terrified of the thought that Jack might be back at any moment and find me staring at the broken mirror, I leaned over the counter and replaced the curtain over the mirror as best I could, stuffing the excess of fabric in behind the mounts. When the curtain didn't seem to want to cooperate, I panicked and hauled myself up onto the counter, throwing the curtain over the mirror and stuffing it into place as best I could. After it appeared moreless how I'd found it, I left the bathroom, careful not to touch anything else.

I was almost out the door when I realized I had left the towels on the counter. Without wanting to leave behind any evidence that I had been in there, I returned to the bathroom, grabbed the towels, and turned off the light.

I was out of 310 as quick as I could go, closing the door, locking it, and making my frightened way down the hallway, clutching the towels against my chest as though they were a life preserver. My heart was pounding against my chest and I didn't know why, exactly. I had seen what I obviously hadn't meant to see, but no one had caught me. Jack hadn't seen me, and for all he knew, I never saw it, and I never would have seen it...if only I hadn't come back to replace the towels.

I sighed heavily, unable to shake away the thought of a broken face in that glass, and how Jack would have seen himself through that mirror.

I couldn't help but imagine what he must have done when he broke that mirror. Did he come in to use the toilet, see his reflection, and just plant his fist in the glass with enough force to make it ripple across the pane? And, in a desperate attempt to cover it up, pulled the curtain and the curtain rod down to hide everything? _Jack, what do you see that needs to be broken?_

/

I still got home at a fairly decent time, but didn't stop anywhere for fear of...I don't know, _anything_, really. I had been more than grateful that the train had been moreless vacant, being it 3:30 and all, and wasn't even hassled by homeless people as I made my speedy way home, clutching my jacket to my body as though it cloaked me from the rest of the world. Henry meowed at me when I came in the door, annoyed and looking for food, and as I closed the door I bent down to scoop him up and cuddled him close, despite his obvious surprise and restlessness. I buried my face in his fur and let out a deep sigh of relief. _Home again, home again._

I settled down considerably once I put Henry down, changed into some pajamas and turned on the TV. I cuddled up under a blanket, ignored Henry's cries for food, and flipped through the three channels, praying that there was a movie on somewhere that I could watch. Just as Henry was really starting to get annoying, pawing at the blankets and all, I stopped on one channel and forced myself up to get him something to eat. I gave him a dish of his least favourite dry food, which he regarded with obvious distaste as I set it down for him, and I fished around in the fridge for my bottle of cheap vodka and headed back to the couch.

I twisted off the cap and took a swig, staring at the TV screen when the 4:00pm news report came on.

"_This just in, breaking news from the Gotham City Police Department. Police have arrested notorious underground drug lord Carmine Falcone in the connection with drug production and smuggling."_

I almost choked on the vodka, spilling a little as I coughed it out. Carmine Falcone? _Thee _Carmine Falcone? I stared at the TV in disbelief as they showed a clip of the gangster being led into a building by a couple of police officers. I felt my mouth drop open; Carmine Falcone was dangerous, he ruled almost everything there was to be ruled in the Narrows and the underground of Gotham City. He had countless goons at his disposal, and as far as I knew, the police _never_ touched him, for fear of the repercussions. Yet here they were, and there he was, going behind bars.

I couldn't believe it. I truly couldn't believe it.

The news anchor returned to the story. "_Police say the events that led to allegations against the accused organized criminal began with what witnesses claimed to be an ambush...by a man dressed as a bat. Right now charges are being laid against the gangster to the full extent of the law-"_

I frowned thoughtfully. Carmine Falcone was arrested, behind bars, probably never to see the light of day again, so long as they were able to prove all accusations against him and, hopefully, find more. And all this was thanks to, what...some kind of..._bat _man?

I collapsed onto the couch, sipping my vodka and stroking Henry's fur as he sat down next to me. What a weird, _weird_ day.

/


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Wow...just...wow. The feedback I received for this past update was just...wonderful, I'm so touched. You guys are lovely and amazing! I've never felt more happy to be writing fanfiction! :D Special thanks to **anna**, **linalove**, **The TalkingCupcake, corbsxx, GorgeousGalaxy, Southern Facade, nicole napier, elfenwindakchrno, smiles, SleepyHeather, trickstersink, KatieMarrie, HoistTheColours, vanessa-v, VelvetRainDrop, Serendipity's tears, Laurenmlbc, RosannaStone, Mort, tomieharley **and **Lorien Urbani **for your beyond-amazing reviews! Thanks also to the countless readers that recently added "Housekeeping" to their Alerts and Favourites list.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Six**

/

I was shaken out of sleep by a loud _BANG _that thundered all around me, followed by the sounds of voices screaming and thumping noises, as though someone was being pushed up against a wall. Henry, having snuggled up in the crook of my arm, rose his head and hissed angrily in the direction of the door; his highness doesn't like having his sleep interrupted.

It was coming from the hallway. Wide awake, I tossed Henry down to the floor and was up on my feet in an instant, reaching under my bed and grabbing around anxiously for the long metal bat that I had stashed under there, in case of a break in and what not. My fingers closed around the hard, cold metal thing as I dragged it out from under the bed, the noises from the hallway becoming louder and sounding much more aggressive.

Bat in hand and at the ready, I rushed to the front door where I could see the shadows bouncing around by the light under the door, and realized that one of my four locks was not fastened. I gasped, wondering how on earth I'd forgotten it, and flinging forward I fumbled with the lock in my shaky hands, taking in ragged breaths as the yelling in the hall intensified, seemingly just outside my door. With the lock fastened, I jumped back, gripping the bat with both hands, and let out a scream when another loud bang erupted, shaking the air and disturbing the peace. Gunshots, it sounded like.

I stood at the ready in the dark, holding my baseball bat and ready to swing should anyone feel the need to come crashing through the door. My heart was thundering and the blood was pumping in my ears when the thudding and the screaming slowly started to subside.

I leaned back against the wall, my eyes fast on the door, gripping the bat tightly in between my two hands. It sounded like whatever had happened was over, or at least ending. The thudding stopped and the voices dissipated down the length of the hallway. I don't know how much time passed before I could hear nothing but the noise coming from the street and my own shaky breaths in the darkness.

I collapsed against the wall and slid down it until my bum hit the floor, and sighed in relief. About twice a week there were these disturbances, loud thudding and screaming, sometimes drunkards stumble into the hallway singing loud pub songs. But never bullets. This was the first time I'd heard a bullet shot so close.

I rubbed my face sleepily, stood up, and went to the fridge. All this excitement called for a nightcap. I was blinded by the light for a few minutes, grabbing my bottle of vodka and dragging it out. I set the bat up against the counter, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig of the stuff. It was harsh on my senses for a moment, but so good and soothing as it ran down my throat. Swallowing, I let out a deep sigh. With the war in the hallway come to an end, I had to get back to bed, but I couldn't deny I was still shaking.

I trudged into the bedroom, dragging the bat in one hand and carrying the vodka in the other. Henry was curled up on the comforter as though nothing had happened, and he meowed loudly in annoyance as I threw back the covers. I let the bat slip through my fingers, tumbling down onto the ground with a _clang_, and slipped underneath the covers, taking another drink from the vodka bottle before setting it on the bedside table.

It really was time to find another place to live. I'd been extremely lucky in that the worse that'd ever happened to me in this little apartment was a break-in here and there, not that there was much to steal, really, but once they figured that out, they'd rip the place apart, throw over furniture, smash dishes, and the like. The first time my place was broken into, I was mortified and felt so incredibly unsafe. After about the fifth time, it became more of a nuisance than a security threat. But now, guns and actual bullets being fired in the hallway, just outside my door? No no, it was time to get out of the Narrows.

Problem was, of course, that Gotham was so bloody expensive, the best I could afford on the salary from the Palace was that crappy little apartment in the Narrows, paying stupidly high rent with enough money left over for food and little creature comforts. There wasn't really any other leeway to move up to a safer neighborhood.

I had occurred to me several times to just find another job; maybe a nicer hotel would hire me for housekeeping, but knowing Estelle and the vast amount of complaints she'd had about my work, she'd never give me a reference. And working for the past few years at a sleazy hotel in the Narrows never looks that impressive on a resume.

Henry jumped back up on the bed, annoyed that I had shucked him off, and maintained his distance as though to show me exactly how displeased he was with my behaviour. He was such a ridiculous cat, honestly, a little sir if ever I did see one. He laid himself down at the foot of the bed and cast me these looks over his shoulder as if to show that he was deliberately ignoring me.

I couldn't help but grin, and leaned forward to take hold of him and drag him into my lap, despite his yowl of protest. I cuddled him up and kissed his head, despite the despicable look he gave me, and I scratched him behind his ears.

Living alone is tough, but it sure helps to have a little sir waltzing around, acting as man of the house.

Henry started to fidget and then I let him go, smiling at him in the dark as he jumped off the bed and wandered out the door and into the living room, as if to say _enough_.

I settled back into bed and closed my eyes, convincing myself that yes, all the locks on the door were fastened, and yes I had my bat handy in case someone came flying through, and _yes_ I just so happened to have a glass bottle next to my head in case I needed to break it and go after an intruder Blanche DuBois style. I was going to be just fine.

/

It started raining again, cloaking Gotham in everlasting night, soaking the Narrows in gloom. Walking down the street at 7 in the morning, I had my umbrella over my head as the rain poured down, the noise from the train roaring and rumbling overhead, quite like thunder except noisier and more irritating, and the sky was so dark it was as if it were 7 in the evening. The streets were clear, save for the bum huddling in the odd doorway or the man on the go covering his head with a newspaper. As I walked along I had the utmost feeling I should have been narrating everything, like a character from _Sin City_ or something, the weather seemed to call for it.

I passed several shops that were opening for the day, cafes and bistros, convenience marts, bail bonds, little gift shops, and the like. I noticed something strange, the more I walked. Each and every little cafe that was opening for the day seemed to be busy, packed with Falcone goons; you could see them clearly from the sidewalk through the windows, they're kind of hard to miss. Dressed to kill, decorated in gaudy gold jewelry, black hair all done up to perfection and shining in the overhead lighting. Every cafe I passed, every Falcone goon I saw, they all seemed to be conferencing, talking with serious looks on their faces. One cafe I passed I saw a bunch of them sitting at a table, drinking little espressos and huddling over a newspaper.

They were obviously discussing Carmine Falcone's arrest from the previous day, and the emergence of this "bat man". It obviously had the Falcone goons on alert. It made me wonder what would happen to the Falcone family now that their boss was locked behind bars? Would the goons dwindle, fade out, move on to bigger, better organized crime possibilities? Or would they become stronger? What would happen to the Narrows now that this had happened? How would it effect business at the Palace, seeings how a good 50% of our regulars were Falcone goons?

The insecurity of the goons...I couldn't help but smile.

_It's a rotten morning in a rotten neighbourhood in a rotten city, but every gray cloud's got its silver lining. Carmine Falcone was arrested last night; the drugs, trafficking, dealing...someone ratted him out, sold him to the bigwigs, the cops or the politicians, or maybe both, who knows? Or maybe there are no bigwigs. They say a creature got him, a giant black thing the size of a man but the strength of a wild animal. Was dressed up like a bat, at least that's what the papers are saying. What kinda guy fights crime dressed as a bat? Falcone's boys are all on edge. With their sovereign behind bars, they've gotta consider their options, make plans. Do they stay and remain loyal to the streets, or do they flee for fear of the bat man? Does he exist? What does he do? What's his story? Is he even a man? In a city like Gotham City, everything's a mystery, and this man, this bat man, sure was a mystery. And it was my job to solve it._

Only it wasn't. It was my job to clean, and it was time to start the day.

/

The rain poured heavily throughout the morning, and the darkness didn't let up. It made for a very dreary, very miserable day at work for yours truly. I started early, eager to finish and return to the streets to see what the word was. The hotel was too confining, too isolated; guests never brought stories of the outside world in with them, and why would they? They came to the Palace to escape those stories outside on the street, leave everything behind, pretend for one glorious hour or one glorious night that they were somebody completely different, in a city far away from Gotham.

It was about an hour before lunch, and I was sleepily trudging through room 303, replacing the toilet paper and fluffing the pillows and drawing open the curtains, and while I was carrying the dirty laundry out the door, I was met by a very red-faced Estelle, standing next to my cart with her fists dipping into her rolls, tapping her foot. I started, and recovered quickly.

"Oh. Morning, Estelle." I bent down, stuffing the laundry in the basket below, so she wouldn't see me scowling. I really fucking hated it when she ambushed me like that.

"Morning Jane," Estelle replied unhappily, and as I stood up she gave me a pointed look, her eyes glaring at me. "Anything you want to tell me?"

I froze instantly. Oh good goddamn, what had I forgotten? What had I done? What had I so stupidly neglected to do in my eagerness to leave this black hole and return to the fresh air?

After a moment I remembered the child porn Polly had reported, but why would she be asking me about that? As far as Estelle knew, I didn't know anything about it...unless she found out that Polly had told me about it, which seemed rather unlikely but all in all, fairly possible. Quickly I thought about what else she might have been referring to, but so far it had been a fairly-straightforward day, nothing to hide...

Except for the broken mirror in 310.

I think the guilt was obvious on my face, I must have the worst poker face ever; I think I stood there gaping at her, all the while her blood vessels seemed to boil under her skin.

She took in a heavy breath through her flared nostrils. "A guest in 306 was in a rage this morning, said his girlfriend went to take a shower and there were cockroach carcasses all over the floor!"

I felt my heart fall into my stomach. Oh, shit, the Raid spray! Once a week I spray the baseboards of all the rooms, it continues to kill bugs for a full week. Recently there hadn't been as many bugs to clean up, but my head had been somewhere else these days.

Estelle continued to scowl at me. "She screamed blue murder, I don't mind telling you."

Goddamn it, what could I say about that one? What could I possibly say to make her not fire me?

The tapping of her foot was driving me wild with nervousness as I scrambled to think of something to say, I think my lips were moving out of hysteria more than the process of forming words. With every passing second it felt like a decade as I desperately, _desperately _tried to think of a story, some lame excuse as to why and how I had forgotten all about it. Of course telling her truth, that I had completely forgotten about the Raid spray wouldn't have satisfied her in the least, she thinks it's a game we play just to be lazy. Her face was getting redder and redder with fury and I'm sure my face was almost as red as hers, but with embarrassment.

While I frantically fumbled in my head to tell her something - anything - I was oblivious to the sounds of footsteps coming down the hall towards us. I wasn't even aware of any other being in existence until Estelle's eyes were diverted down the hall, and, turning her head but not her body, her face was graced with a very uncharacteristic but rather uninspired smile.

"Good morning sir."

Snapped out of my daze by Estelle's greeting, I turned to see who she had greeted and I damn near gasped in horror.

There was Jack, standing a few feet away as though he didn't dare come closer, dressed in his overly big raincoat, clutching a grocery bag in his hands, wearing those stupid hobo gloves.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, a monstrously tall figure, obviously trying to figure out how to get past Estelle's colossal form without squishing himself up against the wall. I don't know why, really, but I was mortified to see him.

A moment passed, and there was nothing by silence between the three of us. Estelle was still smiling like a moron at him, as though expecting a reply, and in Jack's awkwardness he turned his dark eyes to me, with a curious look, a look of _what the fuck_, and expectantly, as though I might help him by. But one glance from him, just the slightest bit of eye contact and that dumbfounded look he gave me, I turned away and felt my face flush with total humiliation. Of all people to see me getting bitched out by my boss, it had to be him.

Estelle looked away from Jack as if to show she was done with him; she never does look too long at our guests. I kept my eyes absolutely glued to the carpet and listened as Jack approached and awkwardly squeezed past Estelle and continued down the hall. When he was safely away, when I was sure I heard the slam of his door down at the other end of the hall, I looked back up to Estelle, who sighed heavily with exasperation.

"What do cockroaches on the floor say about us, hmm? That we're a roach motel?" she leaned forward to put her face right in mine, very confrontational, she knows it psyches us out.

I frowned, unable to help it. Was she asking me rhetorically or seriously? She couldn't possibly think she was housekeeper of anything less then a roach motel. Nevertheless, I bit down on my lip; grin and bear it, Jane. "I'm sorry, Estelle. I just got behind is all."

"Well it cost us the price of the room," Estelle snapped, obviously not buying my pitiful excuse. "You know how Mr. Halterstead hates giving refunds for shoddy housekeeping."

I didn't know that. I didn't know anything about Mr. Halterstead. I wanted to tell her that if he really hated giving away refunds, he'd put up more then a fight with the customers who wanted them. I knew that if I were the manager of the shittiest hotel in Gotham, which was struggling with money so much that it couldn't afford to put complimentary shampoo in the rooms, I'd be fighting with all my life force against guests who wanted a refund on the price of the room.

But I sucked in a hard breath, swallowed the frustration, and hung my head, defeated. "I'm sorry, Estelle. It won't happen again."

Estelle sighed heavily through her flared nostrils, shaking her head so that the sigh waved over my forehead. "Y'know I'm getting a little sick and tired of your excuses. It would be nice to go at least one week without hearing commotion or getting complaints about the third floor."

That was all she said, but that was all she needed to say, and then she was off, waddling down the hall to make her way up to the fourth floor. That one really stung. I was only ever doing what I was told, what I was trained to do, and no positive reinforcement, no real words of thanks, no recognition for a hard day's work. It was hard to tell if it was the hotel or the people inhabiting the hotel, but this whole place was like a black hole of bad feelings.

/

There was a total of three cockroach carcasses _behind_ the toilet of 306, once I got in there to clean as soon as the asshole guests had left. I was so angry I wanted to strip out of my maid uniform, shove it in Estelle's fat face and storm out to walk home in the rain in nothing but my underwear.

I furiously went about the other rooms and I was in a damn filthy mood by the time I knocked on 310's door; I had dragged my feet the rest of the day, despite the fact I achingly wanted to go home and down that entire bottle of vodka sitting on my bedside table, lukewarm, yes, but alcohol, nonetheless.

As I waited with my hands on my hips, I shook my head dismally. I really hoped Jack would just let me in and get everything over and done with so I could get the hell outta there.

I sensed the usual hesitation to answer the door; from the moment I knocked there was the telltale pause I had come to expect and I waited patiently. A thought sprung to my mind immediately that maybe he had gone out, slipped past me quietly, like he was so good at, and then I could go about changing the room without having to bear the humiliation that he had seen me getting bitched out by my boss. Wouldn't it be nice if Jack was out?

But, surprisingly, and regretfully, only a minute passed and I heard the sounds of movement from inside. _Shit_, I spat to myself. _Watch my entire face go red like a tomato when he answers the door_.

And that's exactly what happened. Jack opened the door as if he'd been expecting me all day. There was none of the opening the door a crack and glaring at me from the darkness, as though trying to decide whether I had come to steal all his stuff. There wasn't the usual confrontation by blocking the doorway with either hand on opposite ends of the doorframe. Instead he opened the door in one fell swoop, came into the light casually, like a normal person would answer the door. I was met with the shock of his startling change of habit almost instantly, but it quickly subsided. His general awkward creepiness was somewhat lost on me that miserable day.

"Housekeeping." I said glumly, giving him a forced, miserable little smile.

He blinked at me curiously as though he didn't recognize me, as though he had been waiting for someone and I clearly wasn't them, but as I merely stared back at him he seemed to relax, seemed to accept that it was just me. Who else could he have been expecting? Maybe he was expecting Estelle for some weird reason?

Jack looked down at me with that strange, surprised expression on his face, and then looked behind him over his shoulder into the room, as though he were hiding something in his room he didn't want the maid to see. I was tempted to tell him not to worry, that I already knew about the broken mirror, and no I wasn't going to report him to management so there was no need to be so worried about me seeing it a second time. Luckily, I felt too miserable to say anything, and he turned back to look at me.

"Just a second," Jack mumbled and slammed the door, and I sighed heavily; I could tell this day was just going to get better and better.

The door opened a minute later and he came schlepping out, dragging his feet and stepped aside without saying a thing; I guess some old habits die hard, but I didn't stick around long enough to get offended. I took clean sheets from my cart, moved into the room, and tossed the fresh sheets on the chair by the desk.

I came face to face with the desk under the glow of the lamp. I stopped, instantly surprised to see that the desk's surface was littered with paperwork of all kinds and shapes, without looking too closely. Newspapers, articles, loose leaf paper...I felt my eyebrows knit together. Why on earth would he have so much paperwork, especially a man who obviously seemed unemployed? Maybe it was a weird hobby of his, collecting papers from everywhere, looking for patterns, maybe?

Ah well, not important. I set to work pulling the pillowcases away and replacing them with the clean ones. I dragged off the duvet and stripped away the mattress sheet, sighing away heavily.

Fucking guests and their fucking bug phobias. Did they honestly take one look at the Palace and think to themselves _Oh, here's a nice clean place to fuck a whore before I go home to my wife and kids? _Like, really? The hotel was damn near condemned, and every building in the Narrows was either infested or damn near infested with cockroaches, even the most sterilized blood bank had a few of them crawling around. And they had been behind the toilet, _behind the toilet, for crying out loud!_ What the hell did the woman do, drop a crack needle, go to retrieve it and instead was met with three dead cockroaches?

And then there was Estelle, deliberately making me feel like shit because of the whole stupid thing. As far as I knew, bosses weren't supposed to make you feel like shit every time you showed up to work...although that sure was my experience at the Palace. If she wasn't yelling at you, she was reminding you of something you'd done a million times before, or lecturing you about leaving the cart unattended, or any matter of the long list of grievances she had stored away in her head when she was in the mood to bitch us out. She should have gone into dictatorship.

I was so anxious to get the hell out of there. I had the feeling I'd be sucking down that cheap vodka pretty hard when I got home. Straightening out the mattress cover, lying it down with my fingers, I let out a really deep sigh.

"She's a real cow, ain't she?"

My breath caught in my chest, my fingertips brushing the clean mattress cover froze, and slowly I raised my head. Did I hear it or did I just imagine it?

Jack was standing just inside the open doorway, slumped against the wall with his toned arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were fixed right on mine.

I stared at him aghast, blinking stupidly. "...Sorry?"

Jack's neutral expression became dry and unimpressed in an instant, as though we'd been having a conversation and I clearly had not been listening, and it really irritated him. "Your fat employer."

I gaped at him, one for the sheer shock of hearing his voice. It wasn't the deep, snarling voice that made me shiver with fear in one of our many past encounters. On the contrary, it was actually lighter, almost high-pitched, inquisitive, and it was so _eerie_ coming from him. But the other thing that shocked me was his bedside manner; all I had ever heard out of him were mumbled little things, never full sentences, never questions. The way he was looking at me, the sound of his voice when he spoke, I could see that he was asking me a legitimate question, and perhaps even seemed interested in starting a conversation.

I think I spent the better part of five minutes staring at him stupidly before I pulled my head out of my ass and cultivated a response. "Oh...yeah. She can be...difficult."

Jack scoffed lightly inside his throat, his eyes fixed on me from across the room. He looked...kind of strange like that, with the low light falling against him and casting his shadow across the wall behind him. From the distance between us the scars truly looked like a massive smile, he actually looked like he was smiling at me...but the light caught in his eyes and all I could see was something not unlike...boredom.

I cleared my throat and went back to making the bed. "She's...she's been really difficult these days, I don't know why. I guess some guests can be a little trying..."

I stopped myself from talking any further because it occurred to me that I was babbling mindlessly out of nervousness; when I peered up at him he looked outlandishly bored, eyes downturned to the floor examining his crappy, dirty shoes. I guess I had taken it a step too far. But as I shut myself up and went about my work, I made a note that he was standing by the bathroom and figured he was trying to put himself between the half-destroyed mirror and the babbling maid snooping around his room. Perhaps the initiated conversation was a ploy to distract me from the bathroom.

A very uneasy awkwardness seeped into the air of the room and I moved extra quickly to finish the bed. Jack loitered about the doorway, I could hear him shuffling his feet around as I fluffed up the pillows. Moving around the bed I noticed the waste basket under the desk was over-flowing with balled up pieces of paper but I didn't dare ask if I could empty it.

I moved towards the door. Jack had shifted so that he was now standing against the closed bathroom door, watching me intently, as though to make sure I wouldn't go inside the bathroom at all. It was working beautifully; there was no way I was going to go anywhere near the bathroom with him standing there, broken mirror or no broken mirror.

I stopped just beside him, looking up at him and giving him a gentle smile. Jack stared down at me with a touch of alarm in his wide eyes and I saw him tense. My smile faltered slightly. Was he afraid I was going to touch him? Or maybe this was the closest he had come to human contact in...a long time.

"All done." I said cheerfully, and could have fallen down dead from embarrassment for how stupidly happy I sounded. I could feel the blood gush into the apples of my cheeks almost as soon as I'd said it.

Jack sighed heavily through flared nostrils and looked over at the neatly made bed. I examined his profile for a moment; somehow his scars seemed more prominent and angry from the side. They pretty much ruined an otherwise gentle-looking profile. I was surprised, as I looked at his hair and then his ears, to find two holes in his earlobe. It made me smile just slightly. I never would have pegged him for a guy who wore earrings.

"Well..." Jack muttered, sounding very exasperated and staring at the bed. "Aren't you just working wonders."

I guess I should have been offended, but the truth was he sounded so very unimpressed that I found it pretty funny, and moved out to the hallway to hide my smile and muffle the chuckle in my throat. I went around to unstop my cart when Jack suddenly came to the door, his face only visible in my peripheral vision.

"Thanks a bunch, dollface."

My head snapped up just as the door slammed closed. I could hear footfalls going away from the door but I stood there gaping at the closed door for a long time, long after he had slammed the door.

Did he really say what I thought he just said?

Did he...actually..._thank_ me? Did he actually just call me..._dollface?_

The blood rushed to my face for the umpteenth time that day and I pushed my cart hurriedly down along the hallway, like I was worried he would emerge again and see the little smile on my face.

_It's a crappy hotel in a crappy district of a crappy city, but no compliment, however dismissive, goes unnoticed. He was an odd duck, this Jack Jay in 310, had a face ripped in ribbons; result of an accident, self-mutilation...or maybe he played poker and got in deep with the Falcone boys, who knows. All I know is he's twice the man as other ingrates in this place with only half a face. He's a quiet duck, there's no denying that, but quiet's good. I can live with quiet._

/

**A/N: Fairly tame chapter in the spirit of the holidays, but things are gonna change. Hope you all have a very Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Year! **


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _105 _reviews? Seriously, _105 reviews! _I have _never _had the fortune to receive 105 reviews for six chapters in any story I've ever written, fiction or fanfiction! I'm totally blown away! Thank you so very, very much everyone! You have no idea how touched I am by your kind words. Very, very special thanks to **Swan's Catastrophe, linalove, Weird-To-Strange, Lorien Urbani, trickstersink, KrysOfSorrow, Sugary Snicket, Crazikido2, Serendipity's tears, vanessa-v, , GorgeousGalaxy, anna, elfenwindakachrno, liVe-yOur-fAntasY, tomieharley, Moka-girl, ckatherine, hollisterchick, mehar23mia, .is., Blacklion2803, Gir2345, MystryMeet, HoistTheColours, Southern Facade**, **AmazonaV, blackwaterplanet, Laurenmlbc, claire, DanniLovesAndy, AmberCyn, Jenny Deery **and **Black Claided Cat. **You guys and your reviews are more than amazing. Thanks so much guys, and enjoy the update!

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Seven**

**/**

I was half-dead with sleep by the time I got to the Palace, dragging my feet and rubbing the drowsiness out of my eyes. Martin was sitting at the front desk, as per usual, sipping hot water from a paper cup and reading the early morning newspaper. I stomped out the rain from my boots and walked in, curling my nose as I took in the dismal-looking foyer. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I show up to work, I always seem to forget how dated and ugly everything is.

"Good morning, Martin." I greeted, still half-asleep.

"Mornin' there Jane," Martin broke away from his paper and smiled up at me. It often occurred to me that the gloom of Gotham and the poison of the Palace never seems to phase Martin's chipper, nice-old-man nature. The guests must be fairly nice to him.

"What's going on in the world today?" I asked fairly absent-mindedly, as I scoped the vending machines for a potential breakfast food and was met with stale twinkies and rock-hard Starburst candies. Disappointed yet again.

"Nothing much," Martin answered. "Plenty of talk about that there bat man."

I turned around and walked to the desk. "Really?"

Martin had the newspaper spread out fully on the desk, and as I looked at it there was a large caricature that accompanied an article that consumed the whole page of the Gotham Times. "What're they saying?"

"Well uh, I guess one of the Falcone men described to police what had, uh...attacked them." Martin said, skimming the page.

I stared at the drawing. It featured a lit cityscape, fairly uncanny to that of Gotham, to credit the artist, with a full moon in the background. A huge black shadow with massive pointed ears and evil-looking eyes swallowed the foreground of the picture, looking freaky and ominous, which I'm sure was the point of the picture, but all I felt was a deep curiosity, a yearning to know more about the mysterious bat man.

The bell sounded over the door, followed by the stomping of boots. I looked over my shoulder to see Polly close a very wet umbrella and paw away auburn-bangs out of her eyes. She was within walking distance of the Palace, which was good and bad, I suppose. Takes no time for her to get to the Palace, but talk about one shitty neighborhood. Still, I never hear her complain.

"Morning. What are we looking at?" Polly asked in a fairly unenthusiastic voice, walking towards the desk, her eyes already caught on the paper. Water continued to slide and drip off her cotton-candy coloured raincoat.

"One of the goons from the Falcone arrest describing the bat man." I told her, with a hint of glee in my voice.

"Oh!" Her voice went all high for a second and her eyes widened as though eager to hear more. She leaned over the desk, looking at the article. "Is it actually a man? I heard it was just a big bat creature."

We both hovered over the article, Martin and Polly quietly reading while my eyes stayed fixed on the drawing. It kind of surprised me how they depicted him as a monster. You'd figure any man who took down Carmine Falcone and left the Falcone crime family shivering in their booties would have been acclaimed as a hero, never mind that he was dressed like a bat and possibly had mental health issues. But then again, I guess what people don't understand really scares them, especially in Gotham.

Suddenly, behind me I heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs, and looked up to see Lois coming down the steps looking tired and annoyed. She stuck a hand in one pocket of her apron and brought out a handful of small change. Going for the vending machine.

"Reading the paper, huh?" Lois asked, going past us to go to the vending machine. I could hear the clink-clinking as she put coins in, looking at us over her shoulder. "Estelle sees you two reading on the job and she'll have a bird."

"Balls to Estelle," Polly said, instantly, in the most indifferent voice ever, continuing to read the article, and I snorted a little bit. "She's been riding my ass all week, she can cool her jets a minute. We're just reading the paper."

Polly voices her emotions so much better then me.

Lois paused and looked over at us, her bubblegum-pink lips all curled up in a naughty little smile. "Ooh, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Polly ignored her, leaning over the counter, reading the article in peace. Martin was watching as though waiting for Polly to deliver another little bite of dialogue, and I gotta admit, so was I. But I looked over at Lois, who simply shrugged and pressed a fingertip against the button of the vending machine. I watched, leaning against the counter, as a pack of ding-dongs fell, and continued to watch as the faded baby-blue fabric of the uniform stretched and screamed against Lois's rear end as she bent over to fetch her sugary snack, and rose while struggling to open the packaging with her scissor-like fingernails.

"So Jane, I heard Estelle bitched you out in front of a guest yesterday." Lois said, turning to me and grinning gleefully.

I had to take a moment to recover; the remark hit me in the face like a brick. I frowned, the blood gushing into my cheeks. "Who the hell told you that?"

"She did," Lois said casually over the crackling of the ding-dong package she was still struggling to open. "Said you left bugs all over the bathroom in one of the rooms."

I stared at her in disbelief for a second. Honestly, did Estelle just totally have it in for that she had to waddle around and announce my mistakes to everyone? Jesus, you'd figure she'd just fire me already if she was that unhappy with my work. And honestly, _left bugs all over the bathroom_, what the fuck was that? I'd forgotten to fetch the corpses after the Raid spray, it wasn't like I carried a bag of dead bugs from room to room and sprinkled them around for turn-your-stomach effect.

But before I could say anything in my defense, Lois gave me this weird little look, just as she finally got the damned ding-dong packet open. "Right in front of Mr. Freak too, now that must have been embarrassing."

All thoughts of Estelle's gall were silenced for a moment. Did I really hear what I thought I just head? I stood there with my jaw almost touching the dirty carpet. "Mr. Freak?"

Lois blinked at me in amazement, as though she'd been explaining something to me and was amazed that I still didn't understand. "Yeah Jane, the guy on the third floor?" She looked at me pointedly as she unleashed her creamy little friend from its packaging and held it delicately between her fingernails. "The freak? As in Mr. Freak? You _have _been to work the last week, right? Right? Is that why Estelle was bitching you out?"

I don't know what I hated more, the fact that Estelle was going around bragging that she bitched me out, or the fact that Lois had so blatantly called Jack "Mr. Freak". Now, granted, the first time I saw him I donned him Creepo, but that was...well that was before I smartened up and opened my mind a little bit, I guess. And it wasn't like I was going around telling everyone that Jack Jay in 310 was Creepo, the freaky-ass recluse up on my floor who'd been scaring the shit out of me these past couple of weeks and ironically was the first man I ever remember thanking me for fixing up his room.

Mr. Freak...where the hell did that nickname come from, and who was spreading it around?

Scowling at her, I shook my head in a bit of amazement and crossed my arms over my chest. "You know just because his face is a little scarred up doesn't make him a freak."

Lois looked at me, one tattooed eyebrow rose in piqued interest, and she grinned one of those annoying grins you just want to smack off. She pointed one grossly long pink fingernail at me. "Wait a minute here Jane...are you _defending_ the freak?"

I scoffed loudly...moreso than I should have, I think. "You know if you even took the time to talk to him, you'd see he's really not that different."

At that, Polly looked at me over her shoulder, and the movement drew my attention to her and she had this shocked expression on her face, like I'd told her that _I _was the bat man. "You've _talked _to him?"

"I think Jane's got a little thing for the freak," Lois said, raising her eyebrows at Polly, grinning evilly, brown remnants of the ding-dongs showing in the creases of her teeth.

I was about to spout something ugly at Lois when Polly distracted me, in a voice all loud and aghast. "That guy doesn't talk to anyone, not even Martin...and everyone wants to talk to Martin!"

Martin, having heard his name mentioned, rose his head from the newspaper to look between us. "What's that now?"

Polly turned towards him. "The guest with the messed up face, he never talks to you, does he?"

Martin shook his head. He obviously knew who she was talking about, like he'd had a thousand opportunities to talk to Jack and yet it never ever happened. "Nope, uh, not since he checked in. Comes and goes all the time but never says a word, nope, no-siree."

A weird silence settled between the four of us for a moment there, and I looked between Lois, who continued to grin that evil little grin, and Polly, who just stood there gaping at me. It was as if a creepy little revelation had settled between us all, a creepy little secret now out in the open between us girls, and to make it worse, Polly shook her head at me as though she didn't know who I was.

"You're the only one he talks to." She said, in a breathless tone.

I sighed, aggravated. This was so, _so_ stupid. "Oh my god, it's not even a big deal. I clean his room, he tells me what he likes and doesn't like!"

Before I realized just what I had said, Lois snorted, nodded, and looked to Polly. "Yeah, I bet he does."

I was more than ready to grab Polly's umbrella and whack Lois with the sharp end of it, or give her a hard enough shove that she would go crashing against the glass of the vending machine, when all of a sudden the room went eerily quiet and I knew there was someone standing behind me, listening to our conversation. I sucked in a breath. A frightening thought occurred to me; what if it was Jack? What if he had heard everything, everything that they had said, all the teasing they had done, what would he do? My heart started to race and I calmly turned around.

To my surprise, and relief, it wasn't Jack at all. It was Estelle, standing there, looking at us with a real unhappy look on her face. "What the hell is this, a tea party? Is there room for Alice and the Mad Hatter?"

Met with aghast looks of horror from all of us, her face went blood red and she thumbed towards the stairs. "Get to work, all of you!"

**/**

I felt both flattered and weird to learn I was the only one Jack ever spoke to. I'd have figured he'd talk to Martin, only because Martin was so approachable. At the same time, it didn't really surprise me. It had taken a few days to talk to Jack, put aside the scars and look at the man, y'know? I guess no one else had considered that, or was even going to try and attempt that. They all called him "Mr. Freak", after all. Somehow it didn't seem like tolerance was back in the cards with them.

Needless to say, though, the whole thing pretty much ruined my morning. I went about the first few rooms stewing and getting madder and madder. I ran over about a dozen snappy things I could have, _should _have said to Lois. _Do the guests on your floor ever thank you, Lois? No? Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. Oh, guess who thanked me last night? Mr. Freak. Uh huh, his face may be ripped up a little, but he's more decent than anyone you'll ever get._

Then there was Polly, making such a big deal over the fact that I was the only one that Jack ever talked to. Honestly, what was the big fucking deal? I was the maid cleaning his room, we shared an awkward conversation, a few chit-chat snippets here and there, but it wasn't like he was spilling his life story to me when I came to replace the towels. Part of me wanted to believe that Polly was just a little shocked, she wasn't trying to be mean and she most certainly wasn't try to aid Lois in her ambush. But the more I worked, the longer I stewed, and there was no way I was going to sit in the break room for lunch if _anyone _so much as showed their face in there.

I went walking on my lunch hour, scoping the newspaper stands on the far corner of the block, just past the hookers. I bought a packet of chewing gum and a stale blueberry muffin and scanned the magazine and newspaper covers, searching for evidence of the bat man.

First page news: _**Bizarre Billionaire Causes Mischief, Buys Hotel**_ and beneath it was a picture of a handsome, sharp-dressed man with his arms around two bathrobe-clad women. I leaned forward to get a better look at him, and smiled just a little.

Bruce Wayne...the photo only caught half his face as he looked over his shoulder at the photographer, but the rumors were true. The Prince of Gotham sure was princely-looking. I wouldn't have minded frolicking in the decorative fountains of some fancy hotel with him, although my instincts told me he was probably the biggest flake you'd ever meet.

I looked at the newspaper sitting next to the first: _**Falcone on Suicide Watch, Moved to Secure Wing of Arkham. **_That kinda didn't surprise me. I figured a man of such high profile as crime lord Carmine Falcone would damn near fall down dead of embarrassment after learning that he was busted by a guy in a costume and condemned to a prison cell, probably for the rest of his life, too. He'd probably want to commit suicide rather than get torn apart by both the legal system and his own goons if and when he ever got out.

Chewing idly at the muffin I'd bought, I continued to scan the newspapers, but there was no more news of the bat man, so feeling tired and defeated, I sauntered back to the Palace. It had stopped raining for the time being, but everything was wet and incredibly miserable, and that didn't really help my current mood.

I got to 310 two hours after lunchtime, and after parking my cart in the hall, I smoothed out my skirt and apron and shook my hair away from my eyes. Clearing my throat, I rose a hand and knocked three times on the door. "Housekeeping!"

I stood there for a moment and was greeted with nothing. I sighed with despair; oh boy, here we go, back to the same old _'I'm gonna open the door a crack and only after creeping you out appropriately, then maybe I'll let you in' _bullshit. Something inside me just wanted to call out to him through the door: _Jack, let's can the bullshit, shall we? Just let me in._

But I shook the thought away. Sure I was the only one in the hotel he talked to, but I'm sure he'd have no problems severing what little communication we had.

My foot started tapping and I listened, but there was nothing. I pressed my ear up against the door and really tried to hear something, but not a sound came from inside the room. Straightening up, I frowned, and knocked once again. "Housekeeping!" I called a little louder, and more into the wood; after two minutes there was nothing.

Jack must have been out.

I sighed, feeling more disappointed then I should have, and opened the door with my master key. 310 was gray and cold and depressing, and even though I opened the door all the way, there was something about the air that made me shiver a little. I propped the door open and came inside, looking around. The bedsheets had been turned back, there were still papers littering the desk, and the rod and curtains were still missing from the windows. Jack wasn't there.

I took a moment to assess the room; the bed needed to be made, and even though there were still balled-up pieces of paper in the trash bin and all over the floor under the desk, I wouldn't dare presume to throw them away, in case they were...important.

I looked over my shoulder at the bathroom door. It was closed, so taking a step towards it, I turned the knob and peaked inside. The curtain was still covering the broken mirror, just as I'd left it. I sucked in a relieved breath and closed the door, listening for the _click_ of the knob.

I walked over towards the bed and tried to get a glimpse of the papers on the desk (without looking too closely). It really was the oddest gathering of odd pieces of paper; newspaper clippings, magazine clippings, loose leaf paper, memos...maybe he collected them from random places all over the city. Maybe he found them in trash cans and recycle bins and brought them back here just...I dunno, for the hell of it, I guess.

Perhaps he was a writer...one of those weird, recluse writers you always hear about, the ones who write fabulous manuscripts that are only ever published about the recluse author dies and someone discovers them and insists that they be published. Of course all of the material on the desk looked like it had come from some publication or another, none of it was hand-written. Maybe he was doing research on something, but the articles were all so varied that none of them seemed to connect. Glancing at the newspaper clippings in the absurdly poor light coming in from the window, I caught glimpses of _**Nydia Surrillo Sworn in as Judge Surrillo **_and _**Gotham Crime Rate at All-Time High **_and _**Who is the Mysterious Batman?**_ Maybe I was missing something, but it all seemed fairly random.

I shook my head, not interested. Everyone was reading the papers these days, why shouldn't Jack?

I went to work silently, fluffing the pillows and pulling up the sheets, flattening them with the flat of my palm. I noticed something strange, that as I swept my hand over the sheets, they still felt a little warm...maybe he had just gotten up and went out for food?

I shook my head; not important, Jane.

I resumed my work, tucking the recess sheets into the bed-frame and putting the TV controller on the bedside table. Next to the lamp I noticed the same little tin I had noticed the other day. I'd always figured it was just shoe-polish, but Jack certainly didn't wear shoes that needed polishing...I'm not saying that to be a bitch, I'm just saying that because it's true.

I reached out to pick it up, and withdrew for a moment. I shouldn't touch his things, he'd probably notice...except I'd taken down the whole curtain from the mirror and he hadn't noticed that, and even if he had, he didn't say anything about it.

I bit down on my lower lip and picked up the little silver tin to examine it. In the low, silvery light from the window, I read the label on the lid: _**THEATRICS! Allergy tested.**_

"That's greasepaint."

I gasped loudly and jumped, nearly losing my balance as Jack's voice appeared out of nowhere. I spun around, clutching the tin in my hand, my heart pounding, and there he stood just inside the room, at the foot of the bed, dressed in that long, stupid raincoat, holding yet _another_ white grocery bag in his hands. His deep black eyes looked at the greasepaint and then to me, with a fairly indifferent look on his face.

Swallowing, trying to catch my breath, I looked at him quizzically. "Greasepaint?"

He gave me this incredibly pained look, as though I was by far the stupidest person he'd met in his entire life. "Yeah...y'know, make-up?"

Without waiting for a reply, Jack stepped forward and snatched the tin none-too-gently right out of my hands, which surprised me a little. Turning back towards the desk he set it down, and then emptied his grocery bag out all over the desk. I caught the glimpse of a fat, red Sharpie tumbling out of the bag, but then I looked away before I could see what else he had gotten.

"Oh," I said, trying to break the awkwardness that had seeped into the air. And, figuring that perhaps since I was the only one Jack talked to, and that maybe we could start a conversation, I cleared my throat and turned towards him. "Are you...an actor?"

He snorted in his throat. "_No_."

Again, like I was the stupidest person he'd ever met.

I nodded, prepared to say the all-too familiar "ah", like all was understood. But I couldn't even do that. I looked at him, looked at the hunch of his shoulders and how his greasy hair caught in the gray light seeping in from the window. He seemed far too interested in whatever he had brought back in his grocery bag because he wouldn't even look at me, just started shuffling things around. A conversation was futile.

I sighed through my nostrils, looking down at the well-made bed and shrugging to myself. There wasn't anything else to do in there, guess it was best to move on. I turned to go, but Jack stood in my way, looming over the desk and shuffling papers around, almost as though he'd completely forgotten that I was there. I considered sliding across the corner of the bed to get past him, but then I'd mess up the bed, and he didn't seem to be in a mood much for having his things messed up.

I bit down on my lower lip and stepped towards him. Still he was staring down at the desk, didn't notice me at all. Carefully I went to sidle past him, gently pressing my fingertips against his back as I steered myself past him and rounded the corner of the bed. Jack paused for a split second and I could feel his muscles tense through the thick material of his raincoat. I sucked in an alarmed breath, worried that I had pressed it just a bit too far in touching him, but as I cleared the corner and drew my hand away, I looked at him, expecting him to growl over his shoulder. But he didn't. He remained still for another moment, and it occurred to me that there, silhouetted in the silver light from the window, hunched up with his head inclined just _slightly_, as though he would look at me over his shoulder...it was a truly frightening sight. Like something in a monster movie, and I turned away so I wouldn't see him and swallowed tightly against a lump in my throat.

The shuffling of papers resumed, and I closed my eyes for a split second and let out a sigh of relief. _Jesus, Jane, what do you think this is? Some gothic novel? Are you Jane Eyre, for fuck sake's? Grow a pair, why don't you. _

I shook my head. There was nothing more for me to do in 310, apart from leave Jack alone to his own devices. The shuffling continued, loudly, as though he were just flinging paper around, and after a moment I heard what was definitely the cap of the Sharpie being twisted and pulled off. He was completely oblivious that I was still in the room.

I started towards the door, eager to pack up and get going, but before leaving 310 completely, I turned around to get one last look at him. And instantly something inside of me, something I've never quite been acquainted with, unleashed itself in the form of a goodbye and passed through my throat without my mind having the chance to stop it, without registering just what kind of damage it could possibly do.

"Well, see you later, Jac-"

I stopped myself, gasping deeply as I heard what I had just said. And the shuffling of papers stopped.

A very real chill rolled down my spine as I watched in absolute horror as Jack _slowly_ turned his head and looked at me. I think that image will be burned in my memory for as long as I live. His black, black eyes stared at me and his scarred lips curved into a deep, tight frown. It was almost as if he hadn't heard anyone say his name in a long time, but he didn't _want _to hear his name, and why on earth would he want some hotel maid to say his name if he didn't _want_ to hear his name? It occurred to me right then and there that Jack was a very tall man with very strong arms who could probably do ten times worse to me what he had done to the bathroom mirror if he truly wanted to.

I stood there frozen to the spot, my lips agape, and although I wanted to apologize, spill words like _sorry _and _I didn't mean to_, my mind simply wouldn't let me. My mind wouldn't let me do anything. I couldn't move my feet or my hands...he could have done anything, literally anything right at that moment, and I wouldn't have moved.

We were like that for what seemed to be hours, him staring at me in deep displeasure and me standing there like a stupid maid who didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. A terrible silence seeped and settled into the air between us, and I waited. I didn't know what I was waiting for, but I waited.

Finally, after an eternity, Jack slammed one of his fists down on the desk, and giving me a particularly viscous glare, he turned away from me and went back to his work, but not before emitting a growl unlike anything I'd ever heard from him before.

"Don't you have _rooms_ to _clean_, _**cupcake**__?_"

**/**

Polly was in the break-room when I came in, putting on her coat, and I would have stopped, turned around, and waited until she left before going back in there to collect my stuff and go home. But the door creaked and Polly looked at me over her shoulder as I mentally cursed myself and walked in.

"Hey," she said in greeting, and I flashed her a very brief, unimpressed smile as I went passed her and pulled my coat off the hanger. It wasn't that I was still mad at her for what was said in the morning, it was just my bad mood had turned to a downright shitty mood, and chit-chatting didn't seem to be the right formula to make things better right at that moment.

But Polly seemed anxious to say something. I flipped my hair out from under the collar of my jacket and she took a step towards me, clutching the hems of her pink raincoat with her hands. Her eyebrows piqued in interest and her eyes widened. "Geez, are you okay? You're white as a ghost."

Why did that not surprise me? I swallowed and shook my head. "I'm fine."

Polly didn't seem too terribly convinced, but there was obviously something on her mind that she wanted to talk about. "Hey, Jane...look, about this morning-"

I turned towards her, struggling to give her a smile and finding it particularly difficult, and shook my head. Really, the last thing I wanted to discuss was what was said that morning. "Polly, please, it's nothing. It was nothing."

"I didn't mean to, y'know..." Polly faltered, her plump pink lips pressing together, and for a moment she looked as though she were about to cry.

I buttoned up my jacket and regarded her somewhat dismissively. "Really, Polly. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

But she was looking at me like it wasn't fine at all, like she had sided with Lois in an attack against me and was clearly feeling the effects of her betrayal. I regarded the sad look on her face and sighed. It'd been a rough couple of weeks, for both of us, and it didn't help that we worked with a woman who aspired to be Karen Black, only bitchier, and a fat dictator who liked to announce our mistakes to the world. Maybe it was time for both of us to get outta Dodge.

"I'll uh," I threw my purse strap over my shoulder and gave her half a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Polly nodded wordlessly, and I gave her the biggest smile I could before waving to her and leaving the break room. Normally with Polly I would have done whatever was necessary to make sure she knew I wasn't upset with her, and I wasn't upset...not anymore, at least. I was just too eager to get out.

I said goodbye to Martin on my way out the door, crossed my arms and started down the street towards the metro slowly, sighing heavily and staring down at the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, which was a blessing in its own, but I was too distracted by the events of the day to really be bothered to pay attention to the weather.

Immediately once I was down the street from the Palace, I regretted not reassuring Polly that I wasn't angry with her. She was right, after all; I was the only one Jack ever talked to. He didn't talk to Polly, or to Estelle, or even to Martin, who's the nicest old man in the world.

I kicked a stone and wiped away tears that had started to fall. _Lucky bastards._

**/**

A/N: I just wanted to note, that since January 22, 2011, we have been three years without Heath Ledger, may he rest in peace. He is deeply missed.

"_**Nothing is permanent. Not even death." - Tony, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus**_


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Very special thanks to **AmazonaV, Kyrie Twilight, mehar23mia, elfenwindakachrno, corbsxx, HeldAtRansom, KrysOfSorrow, Gorgeous Galaxy, hollisterchick, santaclauseisastalker, KorroksApostle, linalove, WORKING CLASS-A-HEROine, Wingedhatchling, Swan's Catastrophe, SleepyHeather, KatieMarrie, JordanGoombette, tomieharley, AmberCyn, Gir2345, anna, HoistTheColours, Lorien Urbani, ujemaima, Crimson Fade, riah riddle, Lady Liesel, lov3tan, Book of Belior, **and** PutMeDown**. Another amazing bout of reviews from an amazing bout of readers. Thank you so much, everyone. Enjoy the chapter!

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Eight**

**/**

It was one of the most wonderful days of the month in Jane's world - it was bath day!

Okay, so I know what you're thinking - bath day is the day where little kids, who really _hate _baths, have to take a bath because their mothers force them to, usually after a week of getting really, really dirty. Sundays are typical bath days for little kids, as far as I know. Well, the price of hot water being what it was in my apartment building, there's only one day of the month where I really splurged on hot water and filled my ridiculously old, large bathtub nearly right up to the ledge. And so, every 15th of the month, after I got home from work, I got to soak in a tub of hot water, chilled vodka on hand, for at least two hours before the water turned cold; afterwards, I'd fall right into bed and sleep so deep that I bet I'd sleep for a whole day if my alarm wasn't set, and if Henry didn't pester me for breakfast. In the morning, I'd be oddly refreshed and ready to go.

Glorious bath day, and so I was very anxious for the day to go by.

Luckily that morning there were no interruptions; no reading newspaper articles about the bat man (although I admit I did scope the newspaper stands on my way to work, as per usual), no Lois, no Polly, no Estelle getting mad that we were standing around hissing at each other instead of getting work done. It was straight to the break room to put away my purse and coat, and then I went up to the third floor, skipping up the stairs. Anyone watching would have assumed I enjoyed my job and was looking forward to going to work.

_Glorious bath day, _I mused to myself as I loaded up my cart with clean towels and pillow cases. I imagine I had this stupid, goofy little smile on my face as I pushed the cart down the hallway, checking my clipboard to see what rooms needed what. 301 was a due-out (maid lingo, don't you know) and required a full top to bottom cleaning. No matter, as I parked the cart outside the door, reached for my master key, slipped it into the lock and opened up the door.

The television, the phone, the clock radio, and one of the lamps were missing. I noticed it almost immediately.

I stood in the middle of the room, aghast, staring at the little table where the TV should have been perched, and then to the nightstand where the TV controller, clock radio, and lamp should have been. For what must have been five full minutes, I turned from wall to wall staring stupidly at vacant spots which should have been occupied by cheap electronics; honestly, five minutes of looking left and right and left and right, as though somehow the TV and the clock radio and everything would magically reappear if only I turned my back so they could all come out of hiding.

Totally exasperated, I went to the bathroom, flinging open the door and found that not even the bathroom had been left untouched by the ransacking guest. The towels, face cloths, and even the shower curtain were gone! Honest to god, _the shower curtain? Who the hell steals a cheap, plastic shower curtain?_

"Shit," I breathed, hanging in the doorway and staring around the bathroom in disbelief, and returning back to the room it suddenly dawned on me that at the window was the fire escape, where our klepto guest had obviously made off with the "goods".

Stolen items meant reporting to Estelle, the oh so perfect formula for early morning enthusiasm to get one through the day.

Sighing heavily, I left 301, locking the door and leaving my cart parked outside the door, even though I knew Estelle would be mad if she saw it. As I made my way down the stairs, I took a deep, soothing breath. _Glorious bath day._

Martin was manning the desk, staring ahead of him at the assorted goodies in the vending machines, when I came down into the foyer.

"Hey Martin," I said in what sounded like an exhausted voice, and approached the desk. "Have you seen Estelle?"

Martin made an intrigued-sounding noise in his throat, and his eyes wandered for a moment as though he was searching his mind. "I uh, think she went out to the uh...the bookkeeper."

I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, and ran a hand over my face. "Okay, do you know when she'll be back?"

"She uh, figured before lunchtime she'd be back." Martin said, nodding and smiling at me.

I nodded. "Okay, well when she gets back, could you tell her that I need to talk to her as soon as possible? Some things have been stolen from 301."

"Oh no," Martin's face fell, and I couldn't help but smile. I don't think it's ever occurred to Martin that some people in this city are really as bad as the three of us maids make them out to be. He always seems so surprised when he hears about any one of our horror stories. "Well uh, sure, I'll let her know the moment she gets back."

I gave him this look, probably a _I've lost my faith in humanity_ kind of look, but I struggled to give him a smile. "Thanks, Martin. Talk to you later."

I stomped up every step to go back to the third floor. It annoyed me that Estelle wasn't around to assess what to do about stolen property; it dawned on me to call the police and report the incident, but considering how Estelle had chewed on Polly for reporting the child porn, I figured it was best to wait until she got back and let her deal with the situation in whatever way she saw fit, whether it was to phone the police or leave 301 without a TV for awhile. Either way, 301 was deemed untouchable for the time being, so I unstopped my cart and continued down the hallway.

303 was occupied, but for lack of Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, I knocked on the door and announced: "Housekeeping!"

I could hear the TV blaring through the door, and the sound of someone getting up off the bed, followed by heavy footsteps coming to the door. Stepping back I listened to the jangling of the chain and the creak of the door, and was met with a very repugnant man who was dressed in nothing but a stained wife-beater and boxer shorts; dark coarse hair peeked out from under his heavy arms and chest, and his beady eyes examined me through Coke-bottle glasses. At first I took him to be a Falcone goon, what with his full head of dark hair, but his entire persona denied the slimy yet suave disposition of the Falcone goon.

The man looked me up and down rather obviously, and his eyes meeting mine, he gave me a big, lecherous smile. "Morning there, sweetheart." And he leaned against the doorframe. "What can I do you for?"

He had a strange, high nasally voice with a flirty lilt, and I fought the urge to curl my nose, clearing my throat instead. "Housekeeping, I'm here to make the bed."

The man scratched his naked, hairy upper-arm and nodded. "Sounds good to me. C'mon in."

He stepped inside, holding the door open for me, and as I struggled to uphold my polite smile, a terrible feeling weighed in my mind that he was most definitely going to stand and watch while I made the bed. He was the type, for sure.

The room wasn't abysmal, but it didn't inspire confidence. There was an opened box of Lucky Charms on the bedside table and I was positive the bedsheets would be littered with tiny cereal crumbs. Early morning cartoons were blaring away on the TV set, and his clothes had been thrown all over the floor. Withholding a sigh, I approached the bed, but stopped when I heard a noise behind me. Looking over my shoulder, the guy was grinning sheepishly.

"Would you mind changing the sheets there, sweetheart?" He asked in that creepy drawl as he leaned against the wall and scratched his chest. That right there, the leaning against the wall, made my skin crawl, because it was obvious he was going to watch me make the bed. "I like to have my breakfast in bed every morning, but I have to admit, I'm a little messy." He laughed the most obnoxious little laugh. "That's an understatement, really; I'm such a pig."

_Yes, yes you are_, I thought to myself as I tried hard to smile when in fact I wanted to burst into tears. Replacing the sheets meant another 20 minutes or so stuck in the room with this creep watching me. Nevertheless, I had stolen electronics to report to Estelle, there was no need to tack something else onto the clipboard of complaints for floor three.

"Sure thing," I said with a nod, and I went past him out the door and to the cart, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. I fought the urge to shudder.

I bent down to gather the bed-sheet and hoped, _prayed, _even, that he didn't want the pillowcases replaced too. One could only imagine how many dead skin cells and hairs there were floating around in those sheets, being as hairy as he was.

_Glorious bath day_.

I gathered the bed-sheet into my chest and rushed back into 303, where the creep sat down in the desk chair and was actually eating handfuls of Lucky Charms straight out of the box with his bare hands. I stopped and stared for a moment in revulsion before remembering that I needed to tend to the bed.

Once again I forced the most insincere smile as he grinned at me through a mouthful of sawdust-like cereal, and without hesitation I flung the pillows off the bed and began tearing off the duvet with a vengeance. Usually if I bide my time and was pretty neat about changing sheets, it would take me about 20 minutes. But there was _no way_ I was gonna spend 20 minutes changing the bed if he was just going to sit there, crunching on his cereal, and watching me.

He laughed a little as I pulled the bed-sheet off the mattress. "Now there's a girl who knows how to get things done." He crooned and then chuckled, as though he was killing himself with his own wit.

I flashed him the smallest smile before fluffing out the bed-sheet and laying in over the mattress. I actually had to smile when I saw the corners line up evenly; maybe things were looking up. Leaning over to smooth out the sheet with the flat of my palms, I could feel the creep's eyes on me, burning into me. I was suddenly overly conscious about going to the other side of the bed, closer to wear he was sitting, in case he had the urge to reach out and pinch my ass or something. Bending over, the uniform doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination.

I tucked in the mattress sheet at both corners, listening as he crunched away on his cereal, and standing up and stealing a glance at him, I was relieved to see his attention had been diverged, like a child, to the cartoon show playing on the TV. I stepped around the bed, quickly, and tucked the sheet into the corners of the mattress. Smoothing the sheet out once more, I stood up and looked it over, smiling just a little to see that there wasn't a single wrinkle to beheld.

I went around the bed to where I had abandoned the covers on the floor, and gathered them up in my arms.

"So uh," the guy muttered between mouthfuls on his cereal, and when I turned around with a quizzical look on my face, he was leaning forward in his seat, looking up at me, grinning and crunching away at the same time. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

It felt like something inside of me deflated; perhaps it was my will to live. But it reminded me that no matter how weird he got, he was still a guest, and unless he was going to start making real inappropriate comments, I had to be nice to him, no matter how much it killed me. So, taking this into account, I smiled unhappily back at him. "Jane."

He crunched away on his cereal, tiny pieces flying out of his teeth and landing on the carpet, but he grinned at me. "Jane, huh?

I nodded, and watched in disgust as he dipped his hand into the cereal box and emerged with another handful of cereal. He brought it up to his mouth, but continued to grin at me. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

And he unleashed the fistful of cereal down his gullet.

I think I shuddered, but I hoped it wasn't too obvious. My lips pulled into a thin, tight smile as I watched him crunch away. "Thanks."

As he crunched away, and I had time before he could swallow and start talking again, I flung the bed covers over the bed once and then twice to get them to line-up with the mattress. Once they were in place, I reached over and tugged on the covers to pull them closer to the pillows.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch. _I could hear it like I was the one eating the cereal, and my shoulders tensed. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

The next moment, behind me, the music on the TV changed, a kind of epic prompt for the 11 o'clock morning news. I could barely hear it over all the crunching going on.

"_Good morning, Gotham. Our top story this morning, several witnesses have claimed to have spotted the bat man-"_

I whipped my head around, looking over my shoulder at the TV, the making of the bed and the crunching of the creep momentarily forgotten.

" _- in the Narrows overnight. One witness claims to have seen a large figure dressed all in black scaling the side of an 8th street apartment building around 10:30 last night."_

My breath caught a little in my throat. 8th street? That was only five blocks away from the Palace! My heart skipped a beat. Was it true, was the bat man really here in the Narrows last night? It almost seemed too surreal to be true, the thought that he just might be lurking around these very streets. It was the same feeling you got when you heard that a celebrity had taken up residence somewhere on your block.

The crunching creep made a weird noise of interest in his throat. "That there bat man sure is something else, hey sweetheart?"

I shot him a small smile in reply and looked back to the TV, but the news story was over. I turned back to the bed, throwing the duvet cover over the expanse of the freshly-sheeted mattress. It was pretty thrilling to think that the bat man had been in the Narrows; it suddenly seemed like it would be a total possibility that I might happen to spot him on my way home from work someday. It made me wonder what he was doing down around the Narrows...was he taking out the remaining Falcone goons, anxious to get rid of the crime family forever?

I threw the pillows back on the bed, straightened out the duvet cover with the flat of my palm, and when I was satisfied, I walked towards the door, turning to the creep, who had this incredibly disappointed look on his face. "All set. Did you need anything else, sir?"

The pig put the cereal box down on the carpet. "Yeah, sweetheart. What might you be going this morning? Wanna come have breakfast with me?"

I fought the urge to snort in my throat. Obviously the maid uniform didn't establish that I was working and not really free for breakfast, not to mention how he'd been eating breakfast cereal the entire time I'd been in the room.

Plus, the guy was repulsive. There wasn't a chance in hell.

I shook my head in a no-nonsense way, a weird feeling starting to bubble up in my stomach. "I work all day, sir."

He ran his palm under his nose. "So how about an early supper?"

A shiver ran up my spine. The guy seemed overall fairly harmless, but there was something about him, and even the room with him in it, that really creeped me out. I frowned at him, wanting to stick my hands on my hips and tap my foot, but refraining so I wouldn't look like a total bitch. "Sir, it is strictly against the hotel's policy for a maid to fraternize with guests."

Actually, the way Estelle had put it was _Don't be a skank! I find out you're sleeping with one of the guests and you'll never work in hospitality ever again!_

Crass, but effective.

This incredibly disheartened look came over his face. He could obviously tell I wasn't going to yield, despite exercising what he seemed to believe we amiable manners. "Well that's too bad."

I nodded, my throat tightening up, and I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "Yes, well...have a nice day."

I ran out of the room, closing the door behind me, and fought the urge to vomit. I unstopped my cart, started pushing it down the hall, and then shuddered violently.

_Just remember: glorious bath day._

/

"Oh, for _chrissakes!_" Estelle exclaimed almost the instant she stepped into 301. It was late into the afternoon; for some reason Estelle had found reason to be away from the hotel most of the day. If it hadn't been such a _fucking bad day_, I might have appreciated her absence a little more. Instead, I was annoyed that she hadn't been around to assess the damage in 301.

I hung around inside the room, watching as Estelle looked around, and for some strange reason it made me feel a bit better that she was so miffed, like I wasn't over-exaggerating the fact that all the stuff in 301 was stolen. She spun on her heels a couple of times, looking from side to side, just as I did, as though waiting for the items to magically reappear.

"Dandy, this is just _real_ fucking dandy!" Estelle huffed angrily, sticking her fists on her sides and looking around. Heaving a heavy sigh, she looked at me over her shoulder. "What all is missing? TV, lamp, clock radio-"

"The phone," I said, pointing to the desk. "Plus all the towels and the shower curtain out of the bathroom."

Estelle shook her head, and I could tell she was really disgusted. I had to admit, it was kind of refreshing seeing her mad at someone else, and not at me or the other girls.

"All right," she said after awhile in an exasperating tone. "I'll have to chat with Mr. Halterstead about this one and see what he wants to do."

She turned around and made her way to the door, and I followed close behind. "For now, just leave the room alone until we get it back to normal."

I nodded wordlessly, and followed her out of the room. Estelle locked the door behind her and turned towards me, sighing heavily and playing with the keys. "Guess we'll have to reconsider the locks on that fire escape."

I wanted to say something, like perhaps management should have considered the fire escape and the potential thievery of the people in the narrows, but I kept my mouth shut. I was exhausted, I was miserable...no need to lose my job because of a lippy comment.

"Well I don't think there's anything more to do here," Estelle said finally, shoving her keys into the front pocket of her apron. "If you've finished up, you can go home."

The rain clouds that drowned that day parted as the silver lining of hope entered my mind. I stole a look down the hall towards 310, the room I had not touched all day, dreaded, wanted to forget ever existed, and it was like Estelle knew I was having a crap day and mercifully gave me the green light to forget about it, just for this one day, and go home.

310 was isolated at the end of the hallway, dark and ominous, but I was careful not to look at it too long in case she noticed and pieced two and two together. I swallowed tightly. It sure would be nice not to have to face Jack, especially after what happened the previous day.

Suddenly I felt a little giddy. It was nearly 4:30, it was going to take forever to get home, and the idea of not having to go into 310 and face Jack and risk pissing him off even more was overall way too appealing.

Careful not to show my glee too obviously, I cleared my throat. "Okay."

Estelle nodded, and there was nothing more to be said. She tucked away her keys and made her way down the hallway towards the stairwell, gripping the handrail and making her steady way upstairs, probably to check on Polly.

It was suddenly way too eerie and way too silent in that hallway, and when I looked over my shoulder down the hall at 310, the hall seemed to go on and on, as though I had to reach it but only after a long expanse of time and dread.

Sucking in a deep breath, I clenched my hands into fists, and made my way towards the maintenance closet to hang up my apron and make my way home. Jack would just have to wait.

/

The bathtub in my apartment is this massive pedestal porcelain thing with water stains in the drain. It would have been the ideal tub if anyone wanted to make homemade alcohol during the 1930s. Someone with my skinny frame just gets swallowed by the massive thing, completely different from the bathtubs in my childhood, more modern short tubs without the curvy sides and whatnot. To find a bathtub like the one I had was every girl's dream. If only I had the money to have baths more often.

I started the bathwater, ignoring the grumble from the old pipes and the roar of the water. Bending down into the cupboard of the vanity, I fished out the bag of bath salts I'd bought a long time ago and poured a great deal of the salts into the water, and then I headed into the kitchen.

His highness was nowhere to be found; the roar of the water always scared him, and it was possible that he wouldn't show his face for the remainder of the night. I spied his empty food dish as I took the bottle of vodka from the fridge and emptied the last of it into a glass. I knew if Henry was hungry, he'd do a fine job reminding me by yowling outside the bathroom door.

I took my glass of vodka and wandered back into the bathroom, sipping it as I pulled off my socks, watching as the bathroom started to fog with sweet-smelling steam. Setting the glass down on the vanity, I wiped away the fog from the mirror and looked at myself for a moment.

When I was a teenager, the bathtub became a haven for daydreaming; I soaked an average of four baths a week, much to the dismay of my parents. From the day I turned 15, our water bill doubled. But I remember the bath to be a grand affair, like a ball you were getting ready to go to. I would run the water, lock the door, and then plant myself on the vanity and make myself up with my mother's make-up, slathering my lips with her thick red Chanel lipstick, and reapplying sparkling mauve eyeshadow until I looked like Tim Curry from "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", only way less attractive. And, once I was pleased with my appearance, I would sit in the bathtub, close my eyes, and pretend I was a great Grecian queen in a beautiful palace, surrounded by handmaids, soaking before getting dressed to perfection and going to a fancy feast.

I was 24, and my lips were a natural rosy pink, a great contrast to my pale white skin, such a pretty colour that I couldn't bear to disguise it with lipstick but instead accentuated with lip balm. And my eyes were now so freakishly big and hazel that they pretty much took up the expanse of my face, and so there really was no point in putting on eyeshadow anymore.

I stopped the bathwater, watching the steam rise from the slightly murky water. Taking a quick sip of vodka, I stepped out of my maid uniform, left it on the floor, and removed my unmentionables before stepping into the hot water, hissing at the initial burn before easing myself down into the tub's depth and surrendering to its blissful embrace.

Henry came in and gave me this incredibly indignant look, as if to say _what are you __**doing?**_ and I looked down at him, smiled, and rose a hand to wave to him. Instantly miffed, he curled up on the bathroom mat with his back turned to me. He probably liked the warmth of the steam.

I smiled to myself, sighing, dunking my hands and arms under the water and then raising them up through the surface, watching the steam rise from my skin in thin, smoky threads. I slid down further into the water, raising my knees up until the caps stuck out of the water like islands, and my soaked hair began to look like thick black oil polluting the bath water.

I stretched out my legs and rose them into the air, frowning at my toes. For someone with such a lithe form, I had such huge feet, I probably looked like a clown in my tennis shoes when I was at work. I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking wouldn't it have been nice to paint my toes a nice purple...but I didn't have any nail polish. Maybe if I had a little greasepaint...

I snorted, and shook my head. Greasepaint...where did you go to buy greasepaint, anyway? Would you have to go to some fancy costume shop in downtown Gotham to buy a tin of it? Or did they sell it in the drug store, along with the other school supplies like poster paint and construction paper?

I let out a long, defeated sigh when I realized that I'd have to start the next day with 310, awful as it sounded. What a treat, start the day with a guest that scared the shit out of you on a routine basis. Still, it was nice that I had gone the whole day without having to face him.

I let my legs sink back down beneath the water, and letting out a groan of pleasure in my throat, I sank down further into the tub until the water touched my chin, and I closed my eyes and felt like going right to sleep. No blame for 301, no Jack.

Glorious bath day.

/

A/N: If I may, I just want to give a great big shout out to Christian Bale for winning Best Supporting Actor at this year's Oscars. XD


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Very special thanks to **mehar23mia, whataFrenzy, trickstersink, SleepyHeather, Gir2345, ujemaima, AmazonaV, corbsxx, linalove, theeoneandonly, GorgeousGalaxy, Moka-girl, Boom btch, Arathi.x, tomieharley, Lady Liesel, AmberCyn, Lorien Urbani, **and** Draven 98** for your reviews. You guys rock! Enjoy the update, I think you're gonna like this one. ;)

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Nine**

**/**

I felt strangely peaceful going to work the next day, showing up and putting away my stuff without a single sullen thought. I've often found that bath day, followed by a deep, long sleep, is really the most therapeutic method for stress, therapy I really could have used more often, if only the water bill wasn't horrendous as it was. But it was either the hot water, or maybe the bath salts...or maybe the fact that I finally got to lather up my hair and dunk under the water and feel the shampoo sizzle and disappear all around me that did it (usually I washed my hair in the sink), because when I flopped into bed, with my skin tinged pink and my hair flung up in a towel, I felt oddly happy and entirely relaxed. Even Henry came in after awhile, having forgiven me for my eccentric behaviour, and jumped up beside me and rubbed his face into my shoulder, flung himself onto his side, and pretty much stayed like that right until morning, when he blinked sleepily, remembered his place in the obvious hierarchy that is my tiny household, and started yowling for his breakfast.

Nonetheless, I felt oddly at peace and chipper as I loaded up my cart and started down the hall...until I realized I had to start the day with 310, since I had so selfishly dismissed it the day before.

I checked my watch. 8:03 am. While it seemed far too early to clean the room, I didn't want to leave it to the end of the day and risk having Jack go complaining to Estelle. Although he didn't really strike me as someone who concerned himself with complaining about shoddy housekeeping, I didn't want to chance getting any further on his bad side.

I stopped the cart outside 310, looking out the window onto the street. It was a dark day, more dark than usual, even, as rain poured down and it seemed so miserable that the light in the hall seemed exceptionally bright, like it was nighttime or something. There'd by no scouting the newspaper stands for news of the bat man on my lunch break.

I sucked in a deep breath, a strange feeling bubbling up in the pits of my stomach, as I held up my fist in an attempt to knock on the door. But something stopped me for a moment; perhaps it was the way he had tilted his head and glared at me the other day when I spoke his name, or how he slammed his fist so hard down on the desk, or perhaps it was the fact that he was just _so much bigger_ than I was, that made me pause. I swallowed tightly and looked down the hall, thinking I would much rather risk another encounter with creepy cereal man than go into Jack's room.

But I knew I had brought it on myself; I had jumped at the opportunity to ignore Jack completely so I could go ahead and have my bath. Now I was paying for it. Karma, maybe?

I knocked three times on the solid door and my heart leapt up into my throat. I had a sick feeling that Jack was still asleep and was one of those people who really hated being woken up so early in the morning. And he'd been so obviously unhappy with me the last time I came to clean his room that maybe...I don't know, what would he do? What _could _he do? An eternity seemed to slip by after knocking and I felt more than uneasy.

I heard the clang of the chain on the other side of the door and my heart dropped into my stomach. There was no warning, there was no sign, even, that he was awake or even in the room! Usually I could hear his heavy footsteps, or a growl, or...or _something! _Something to let me know that he was there and I had to watch myself.

But there was no time, no time at all, and for a split second I felt like booking it down the hallway, screaming and flailing my arms around. I sucked in a breath and prepared myself for the verbal onslaught I knew was coming as the door opened.

There was a mutual degree of surprise on both ends. Jack towered in the doorway, looking down at me with a fairly dumbfounded look on his scarred face. His brown eyes were wide and full of question and his lips pulled into a tight frown that, luckily, expressed more surprise then the full-on contempt I had been expecting.

It was short-lived. Having seen it was me, his eyes glowered and his frown became even darker than before. He seemed to puff himself up, his shoulders rising, his whole body seeming to tower over me just a little more. The tip of his long tongue suddenly lashed out against the scars on his right cheek, startling me a little, and he made a wet sound with his mouth and he looked down at me, sneering. "You're early today, _cup-__**cake.**_"

The ugliness in his voice gave me goosebumps but I tried to keep my composure as best I could. I cleared my throat and tried to manage a tiny smile, but I think I failed. "Just...making my rounds."

He scoffed in his throat and continued to block the doorway, so I just stood there looking at him stupidly. What surprised me was that he had obviously just stepped out of the shower. His usual greasy dirty blond curls were damp, hanging down around his face like thin, dark curtains, and his face was tinged pink and his cheeks were flushed. He had obviously pulled on the white T-shirt he was wearing too soon after drying, because faint damp spots appeared in the middle of his chest and along the sides of his stomach. Frankly, he looked like one of those people who never heard of showering and would probably hit you if you tried explaining the concept to them, so you can only imagine my surprise.

We stood like that just for a few moments, and slowly my fear subsided as I realized he wasn't going to do anything drastic. I think he was just trying to intimidate me, make sure I went away or something. But I just stood there and waited, my fingers clutching at the fabric of my maid's uniform so my arms wouldn't start shaking.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, he sighed heavily through his nostrils, turned on his heel, and walked into the room. I watched his back in question as he stomped away from the door, leaving me alone in the hallway with the door wide open. I took that as an invitation to come on in and do my job. Standoffish, yes, but an invite, nonetheless.

Letting out a shaky breath of relief, I crossed the threshold into 310, watching as Jack angrily ripped the chair out from under the desk and planted himself in it like a sack of potatoes or something. He immediately went to work on something on the desk, like a dynamo; obviously he wanted to pretend like I wasn't there.

I felt defeated as I walked into the cold, drab room, the desktop light the only source of happy light in the whole space; he had the TV babbling away on a low volume, a cooking show, from the look of it. Either he had been watching the program when I knocked and was too unhappy to continue watching, or he had been ignoring it the whole time as he worked at the desk.

Either way, it wasn't worth dwelling on. I was determined to tidy up the room and be out of there just as soon as humanly possible.

I went to work on the bed immediately, pulling away the duvet cover and listening as Jack furiously scribbled at something. Stealing a glance over at him, I saw nothing but his hunched shoulders, his head bent over something, and his toned arm hooked on the desktop as if to prevent me from seeing exactly what he was doing. A dark unhappiness seemed to shroud the air around us, like cigarette smoke, and I could feel the awkward tension. I stretched over the width of the mattress to straighten up the sheets. I did _not_ want to have to go around and risk either getting Jack to move or brushing past him.

With the sheets looking as best they could when straightened up from one side, I flung the duvet cover up and over the bed once, but seeing that it wasn't straight, I lifted it again and let it settle once more. A sudden thump on the desktop startled me for a moment and I looked to see Jack had paused whatever he had been doing and was simply sitting there. I figured he was just getting madder and madder, so I hurried along to get everything done.

With the duvet cover straightened as best as I could make it, I picked up the pillows and tugged up the pillow cases, fluffing them between both hands before stacking them up one on top of the other. With that, the bed looked as good as it could be, and Jack, having figured I was done, seemed to go back to his scribbling.

I turned around and headed out to the cart, catching my breath a little in the hallway where he couldn't hear me; my heart had been pounding so hard I thought maybe I was going to have a heart attack or something, but I tried to calm myself down as I gathered a couple of towels into my arms and leaned forward against my cart for a moment.

_Just calm down, Jane, really. _

I straightened up, cleared my throat a little, and came back into 310, eyeing Jack as he busied away at his work at the desk, and turning away from him I gripped the handle to the bathroom and opened the door, flicking on the light without hesitating. The one used towel I could see was draped dramatically over the toilet, so I sighed and put down the clean towels on the counter and went to retrieve it. The room was still distantly warm from steam and smelled like the cheap bars of complimentary soap, and as I reached out to grab the towel I sighed as I realized it was sopping wet. Why I was surprised, I'm not really sure, but I did have a feeling that the rest of the day was going to go downhill from there...

I ran my free hand over my face and stood up, turning towards the mirror expecting to see my tired eyes staring back at me, begging for coffee.

Except I didn't see my reflection. All I saw was the ugly ass curtain that should have been in the other room on the curtain rod.

I gasped, and the towel fell from my fingers and landed on the tiled floor with a sickening _splack. _What the hell, _what the hell? _How had I _consciously _stepped into the bathroom with Jack sitting in the _next room?_

I turned around and made a beeline for the doorway, but stopped abruptly and let out a scream.

Jack blocked the doorway, eyes on me, wide and black as night, his lips open just a little as though he couldn't believe my audacity. The hands dangling at his side suddenly clenched into fists.

I took a step back to distance myself from him, reaching out to the side to grip the countertop and make sure I wouldn't slip on the tiles. I stared at him, my heart racing, my breathing erratic; for what seemed like forever he simply stood there int he doorway staring at me, the bathroom light making his skin brighter and the black in his eyes deeper and angrier. His lips closed and I watched in horror as they pulled into a tight little frown.

I bumped the toilet with the back of my knee and gasped a little. I had been unaware how unconsciously I had been backing away from him. I fought the urge to sit down on the closed toilet lid; I'd just be a sitting duck.

A sigh flared through Jack's nostrils, and he took a step inside the bathroom. I was trembling, gripping the countertop so hard so that I'd stop shaking, but it was no use, really. His foot bumped the door, and I could hear his padded footsteps on the tiles like thunder in my ears. I swallowed through the lump in my throat and I had the utmost urge to throw up.

He took another step into the bathroom until we were at arms length from each other, and I marveled at how at his height he very nearly touched the ceiling. I suddenly had the sensation that I was shrinking; he was getting taller and meaner and uglier, and I was shrinking down and down. I could smell soap on him, and somehow that seemed to make it worse.

Jack let his shoulders go slack a little, and for a moment we just stared at each other in this mortified silence, me with my mouth gaping open, ready to start crying, and he sucking at the insides of his cheeks. I could hear him doing it, nosily, and it made my skin crawl.

His black eyes were hard on me, like daggers that had pierced my shoulders to the wall, making sure I stayed perfectly still and didn't go anywhere.

"So..." Jack drawled in a tone of voice that was hard to read. "How long have you known?"

My heart jumped into my throat to prevent me from speaking, and desperately I tried to swallow and croak something out so not to displease him any further. I shrugged my shoulders just a little, because at that moment I really didn't know what he was talking about. "...Known what?"

My voice was small and frightened as it left my lips, and as soon as I realized what I had just said I wanted to clap my palm over my mouth and then spew a million apologies at him. Playing dumb here was obviously not the best route to take.

Jack's black eyes glowered, giving me an incredibly venomous look. His lips pulled into an unhappy sneer. I stared up at him in horror, completely unsure what he was going to do.

With another unhappy sigh, his right arm struck out like lightning, making me jump, and while I thought for sure he was going to hit me, I watched as his arm went to the mirror, his long fingers curling in the curtain, and with force unlike anything I had ever seen before, he ripped the curtain off the mirror. A scream left me as I thought for sure the force of the curtain being torn away would pull the mount right off the wall, sending the mirror crashing down onto the countertop, shattering the glass into tiny pieces all over the counter and floor. To my relief, it didn't, but Jack, with the curtain curled into his fist, took one look at the mirror, and then turned his attention back to me, shucking the curtain into the bathtub, once again making me jump.

My lips were quivering as I looked over at the mirror, the rippled broken mirror I hadn't laid eyes on since the day I had first discovered it. I squeezed my eyes shut and I could hear Jack heaving lowly with such fury as I had never imagined a man being able to conjure. I desperately tried to keep from crying; I knew that tears would only further infuriate him.

I opened my eyes, meeting the rippled pattern of the broken glass in front of me, and then I turned to look up at Jack. My jaw was trembling as I stared into his black eyes, glowering down at me. "I didn't tell anyone."

Jack snorted indignantly, taking another step towards me. "Well...wasn't that _nice _of you."

I shook from the danger evident in his voice, my eyes trailing down to his toned arms. I could see the veins in his forearms as he flexed them, his hands balled into fists, and there was no doubt in my mind that at any moment I might fall victim to one of his blows. I looked back up at him, just in time to see his tongue lash out and graze his scars.

"What, are we _friends _now?" He growled, his voice low and gritty, his shoulders hunched up so they were almost at his ears. He loomed down at me, black eyes glaring. "Gonna keep _allllllll_ my little secrets, hmm?" He smacked his lips. "Maybe you'd like to paint my fingernails and, ah...put _ribbons in my __**hair**_."

I winced at the pure ferocity of his hard voice, deeper than usual, sending chills down my spine, and instinctively, as if to defend myself, I rose one hand in case I had to try and throw him away from me. With all the courage I could muster, I spoke lowly and calmly. "Jack, _wait-"_

At that, Jack lashed out his left arm and slammed his fist into the wall behind me. I jumped and screamed all at once, hiding my face in my hand because I knew at any moment I was going to burst into tears, and worst, I knew he wouldn't like that at all. When I looked up he was leaning in towards me, not close enough to touch, but definitely a bit too close for comfort. And I could see why he was doing it. He was looking directly down at me, and I stood no higher than his shoulder at best. I was trapped.

"You keep intruding and Im gonna have to go somewhere _else_," Jack spat, making me wince once again. "And I don't _want_ to go somewhere _else. _I _**like it **__here."_

A sick feeling bubbled up in my stomach and I knew I had to do something, I had to say something, or this would be it. He was going to do something really drastic if I didn't stop him. This was no longer about scaring the maid who'd come snooping where she wasn't supposed to and scarring her for life. No, no...he was angry enough to do something really _bad. _I could feel it, it was in his air, pulsating around him like an aura. I'd always figured, from the moment I saw him, that there was meanness in him and I knew that his fists could inflict more hurt than I cared to imagine. I had to say something. _Something._

"So..." I murmured weakly, my lips shaking as I met his eyes and did everything in my power to keep from looking away. "so it's good I didn't tell my boss about the mirror."

Something flickered in his black eyes, something strange, but then they returned to their usual blackness. My brain scurried as I told myself to keep talking. If nothing else, it was definitely distracting him. "I-If she knew...she'd throw you out."

_Nice going, Jane. I'm sure he just loves getting threatened like that when he's really pissed off._

Yet, much to my mortification, I was still blabbering. "...But I didn't say anything."

Again there was strange flicker in his black eyes, but he looked even more pissed off, if possible, and his nose curled with a dark sneer. "Well _ain't that __**sweet**_." His voice, low and dangerous, was intensely furious. He leaned forward, his face inches from mine, his black eyes swallowing me whole. "Don't do me any favours, _cup__**cake**_."

I shook my head anxiously, because there didn't seem to be anything else I could do. "No favour. What d'you think she'd do to me?"

_God, Jane, you idiot, what the fuck are you saying?_

"S-She finds out about this...she'd skin us. B-Both of us." I swallowed tightly, watching his reaction closely. "Stitch us together and wear us like a coat...like you said, she's a real cow."

I felt a tear slip out of the corner of my eye and at that moment I wasn't even aware of what I was saying anymore. I was so sure that this was it, something really bad was going to happen and there was nothing I could do...but then I watched in horror as his expression changed ever so slightly; something in his eyes changed, almost as if they were piqued...not with curiosity, necessarily...suspicion perhaps, as if he were contemplating whether or not I was telling the truth or if I was trying to fool him.

Whatever it was I was seeing in his eyes, it sure didn't lift on his face; his features were still hard and sneery, until I heard him scoff a little in his throat. "Wear us like a _coat_, huh?"

And then...the most horrifying thing happened.

His tightly drawn lips, held down in an angry frown, suddenly lifted. The corners of his mouth curled and he grinned, revealing two rows of yellow-stained teeth, and something changed in his eyes when all of a sudden he opened his lips and let out the most spine-chilling sounding laugh I have ever heard in my life.

His laugh reminded me of a hyena's; it was sinister, shrieking, almost mocking...I tensed and my heart stopped as his laughter bounced off the walls and rang sharply in my ears, making me tremble. My lips shook, and for the first time since Jack cornered me in the bathroom, I looked past him and thought of making a mad dash for the door. Nothing about his laugh said stay in this room just a little longer.

But almost as suddenly as he had started laughing, he stopped, and I was forced to look up into his face again. He had a lazy smile on his face, somewhat angry-looking because of the scars, but lazy nonetheless. His eyes were no longer the deep black that I had been seeing. Magically they changed back to brown right before my eyes, and they were twinkling as if he were still laughing inside his head.

His arm dropped lazily to his side and he looked down at me, a chuckle still making its way up through his throat. "That's funny. You're a _funny one, __**cupcake**_."

A shuddery gasp flew past my lips before I could contain it, and it suddenly dawned on me that nothing was going to happen. He had calmed down. I had calmed him down.

But the realization was short-lived as I suddenly heard someone calling my name from the hallway. "Jane? _Jane_!"

Jack turned and looked over his shoulder to where the voice was coming from, and suddenly there was no time to be loitering around his bathroom, just inviting someone to come waltzing in and take a look at the broken mirror. Wiping away the tear that had fallen I pushed my way past Jack, brushing against his chest as he backed up to let me go by, and as quickly as I could I left 310 and came into the blessed light that was the hallway. My hands clasped the handle of my cart and I let out a heavy gasp of relief. I thought I would start crying again.

I looked up and there was Estelle, standing only a few yards from me and giving me one hell of a suspicious look. With her fists on her sides, she looked at me, and then looked past me, probably at the door. A horrible feeling bubbled up in my stomach telling me that she had seen me come out of the bathroom, and had seen Jack was fast behind me.

"Estelle, hi." I said nervously, and when she looked back at me, she had this look on her face that suggested she was going to accuse me of something I most certainly would not have done. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was gaping and her mortified expression read as if she were to say _you little slut _but I quickly shrugged my shoulders as if nothing was wrong and gave her a smile. "Just...clearing the dirty towels."

I heard the creak of the door behind me, and I figured that Jack was closing the door to leave me and Estelle alone in the hallway, which would have looked even more suspicious. But, to my surprise, as I looked over my shoulder, Jack was casually leaning up against the doorframe, not looking at me but at Estelle, with this creepy little smile on his lips, as if he knew something she didn't. For a moment I wanted to scream at him, because who knew what ideas were flying through Estelle's head right at that moment, and his body language was not helping.

I looked back to Estelle and she was looking at Jack with a strange look on her face, her features all twisted up as though she wanted to accuse us of something but didn't want to start in with Mr. Freak, as he was so colloquially known as in the hotel. I could tell by the way she seemed to lean back just a little...Jack obviously made her very, very uncomfortable.

Clearing her throat a little, she looked back at me and was back to her angry, controlling self. She looked at my cart and then turned her suspicious gaze towards me. "Why are you starting all the way down here?"

_Shit_. I couldn't tell her that I had skipped 310 the day before in order to go home early and therefore had to start with it this morning, but my mind wandered for what seemed like an excruciating amount of time, long enough for Estelle to arch her eyebrows as if to say _Well? _and then it just tumbled out of my mouth. "...The gentleman asked me to come early today."

There was a strange silence that settled in the air between the three of us. I had expected to hear Jack scoff or snort behind me, catching me in the lie, but I didn't hear anything out of him, and Estelle looked between him and me as if she were expecting the truth to come out of our eye contact, or subtle expressions...one of the two.

Instead, as we maintained our ground, Estelle simply looked to Jack. "He did?"

I looked over my shoulder at Jack, praying that in my mind he would just agree and leave it at that, but he was still smiling that little smile and it suggested to me that he was looking for a little more trouble. He was looking to stir something up.

But, maintaining his little smile, Jack looked directly at Estelle, never once looking at me, and said: "..._Yeah."_

Estelle was appropriately amazed, as far as I could tell. She blinked her eyes as though she had been desperately mistaken about something, and then she looked at me with a slightly dumbfounded yet suspicious look on her face. "Oh...well, carry on."

And she turned around and made her way down the hall. I watched her, with my heart in my throat, for a good five minutes, until she had almost reached the stairs, when I turned back to my cart and let out a breath of sheer relief and utter terror. Once again, I was sure I would start crying, but I willed myself not to. _Don't, Jane. Just don't._

It then struck me that Jack was still loitering in the doorway behind me, as I had not heard him close the door. I sucked in a breath and went to clasp the handles of the cart when I remembered the wet towels I had left in the bathroom. Pausing for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to go in and grab them, I finally decided that they could sit there for another day. Jack didn't seem like the type to complain about wet towels.

I unstopped my cart and started pushing it down the hall, listening for the sound of the door to 310 closing, and when it didn't, I turned and looked over my shoulder.

Jack was still standing in the doorway, watching me go with that creepy little smile on his face. Even at the distance we were at, I could still make out his gnarled lips and that mean little smile. He shifted, and moved as if to come out into the hallway and follow me, which made me quicken my steps a little, but as I watched, he continued to smile at me, stepped into 310, and closed the door.

I stopped the cart for a moment, looking back down the hallway, the hallway that seemed to stretch and go on and on forever so I could never reach 310. It was completely silent and totally vacant.

Turning around, I continued to push my cart along the hallway, my heart thundering in my chest, and I thought for sure I was going to start bawling like a baby right there in the middle of the hall. Everything...first being cornered in the bathroom thinking Jack was going to do something terrible...and then the look on Estelle's face, I knew she thought we were doing something in the bathroom we shouldn't have been doing. It was too much. All of it was just...just too much.

I let go of the cart and while it slowed to a gentle stop in the middle of the hallway, I continued to run down the hall towards the maintenance closet. Tears threatened to stream from my eyes but I did my best to keep them from falling.

It was just my luck that the door to 303 opened just a few feet in front of me, and the cereal creep emerged, fully dressed (to my immediate surprise), and as he closed the door, he looked and saw me coming, and a big lecherous smile stretched across his face.

"Hey there, sweetheart." He drawled, and I simply glanced at him as I came close. "I was just headed down to the diner on the corner, you wanna-"

I ran past him, not looking at him and not stopping to hear the rest of his proposition. I could hear his protest behind me but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I just couldn't.

**/**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **First off, a very big apology that this update is so late! I enrolled in a spring course that is super intensive, and the coursework load has been ridiculous. But that's no excuse for how late this update is :( A very special thanks to **AmazonaV, SombodyStandingThere, JordanGoombette, Crazycoolname, mehar23mia, Sugary Snicket, Weird-To-Strange, ujemaima, linalove, corbsxx, keepyourselfalive, KorroksApostle, HoistTheColours, pourquoibella, Draven98, Charlotte, whataFrenzy, Lady Liesel, lov3tan, absinth-tein, RosannaStone, BloodyRose, tomieharley, SleepyHeather, Liapocalypse, TinkerbellxO, Lorien Urbani, anna, Madison **and **scarlett** for your awesome reviews, as well as an enormous thank you to everyone who has added Housekeeping to their Story Alerts or their Favourite Stories. **You guys make me happier than I could ever possibly say. **A few reviewers have mentioned that I should make the chapters longer...well, here you go, at a whopping 16 pages. Hope you enjoy it. :)

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Ten**

**/**

The next morning I doubt I was even in the door five minutes, putting down my purse and in the middle of taking off my raincoat, when Polly came out of nowhere, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me into the furtherest corner of the break room. I stared at her with imploring eyes, and in return her big brown eyes just twinkled, as if she were giddy about something and was dying to tell me all about it.

"Oh my god, Jane, did you do it?" She asked in a hushed but very excited tone.

I blinked for a moment. It was too early in the morning for such vague questions, and without my daily dose of coffee, I was feeling rather on the sluggish side that morning. I shook my head at her, while her eyes continued to glimmer with anticipation. "What?"

"Oh, come on, Jane." Polly pleaded, grasping both my elbows with her hands as though I was keeping a desperate secret from her that she just needed to know, kind of like a little girl who needed to know if the boy she liked had a crush on her in return. "Y'know I won't say anything, I won't tell."

A flash of panic surged through my mind. Oh _**shit**__! What did I do? What had she heard?_

I shook my head, and made a face that probably intimated I thought she was mental. "About what, Polly? I have no idea what you're talking about."

Polly bit down on her lower lip a little wickedly, and then looked to the doorway to make sure we were out of earshot of Martin, or anyone else who might come barreling in through the door. She then looked obviously at Mr. Halterstead's office door, which was closed, as per usual. When she saw that the coast was clear, she leaned a little closer to me, a full wicked grin on her lips. "Estelle came up yesterday and said something about you and Mr. Freak."

My heart stopped in my chest, and the nervous breath I was holding left my mouth in a shocked little gasp. "What? What did she say?"

Polly couldn't contain her excitement, not now that I had made it so obviously clear that something had probably happened. "Something about you two coming out of the bathroom or something. She said you were all...flustered."

...

Oh, _what. The. FUCK!_

When I failed to respond rationally, or verbally, for that matter, Polly's eyes absolutely glittered with the joy of juicy gossip come true, and gripped my elbows a little harder, her grin widening showing off her perfectly even pearly teeth. "Oh my god, it's true, isn't it? What did you guys _do_?"

Blood gushed into the apples of my cheeks and all of a sudden I felt rather hot all over. I was caught completely off guard; what the hell do you say in response to something like that? I looked away from Polly; I'm pretty sure my hazel eyes were about to turn a glowing red with white hot fury, and I didn't want her to see.

Goddamn Estelle, I just _knew _she thought we were up to no good yesterday. She probably thought we had just...had sex on the counter of the bathroom, or some shit, and we were finishing up by the time she came down the hall. Yeah, I admit, it would seem a little shifty if I were in her position, and yeah maybe I did seem a little "caught in the act" at the time, but it was only because I had been scared out of my mind and didn't want to fuel the fire any more by saying anything in front of Jack.

But why the hell would Estelle say anything to Polly? If she had suspected something, why wouldn't she have just pulled me aside and asked me about it? Hell, you'd figure she'd have gone complaining to Mr. Halterstead that one of his maids was suspected of sleeping with a hotel guest. Any rational person would have let the manager know and waited until after the maid was fired to tell the rest of the crew.

But now it was sure to be all over the bloody building. If she told Polly, she probably squawked to Martin, too. Goddamn it, why the hell did Estelle have to go around spreading rumors like that?

I looked at Polly, who was still staring at me with her big brown eyes, anticipating an answer to her question, and rather weakly, and probably unconvincingly, I shook my head again. "...Nothing. He was asking me about the bathroom fan, it uh...it wasn't working."

To say Polly appeared disappointed was an understatement. Her face literally fell, and her eyes had gone from glittering to just completely let down. "Oh..." she said quietly. She stared at me for a moment as I resumed taking off my raincoat, not looking at her. Polly stuck her hands on her hips, looked at me, and shrugged a little sadly. "I thought maybe you were having some passionate love affair with the freak."

I turned my back on Polly, both to hang up my coat and close my eyes with exasperation. Man, I was really starting to hate that. It wasn't Jack's fault that his cheeks were all messed up...at least I don't think it was his fault. We hadn't gotten to the point where we were telling each other all our secrets. Either way, the thought of having a "passionate love affair" was so ridiculous that I couldn't help but scoff a little in my throat.

This was a bad start to a bad day, I could tell already.

"Yeah, and risk losing my job even more." I said, and smoothed out the front of my skirt, but I turned around, shaking my head. I couldn't believe we were even discussing this. I looked at Polly, who was considering me curiously. "Why would Estelle say anything about that?"

Polly blinked at me for a minute, and then she shrugged her shoulders, but I could just see the beginning of a smile teasing on her lips. "Well, you gotta admit, Jane...it is a little suspicious."

For a moment I thought my face was going to explode and blood would go gushing all over Polly, the floor, and the walls. So not only was Estelle going around telling people that she had seen me and Jack leave his bathroom together, but she had Polly, and probably the rest of the damn building, partially convinced that something had actually happened.

"Goddamn it," I muttered under my breath, and pressed my fingertips to my temples, determined to remain calm and not go on a killing spree. "Next thing she'll say is that he had his hand up my skirt or something!"

I don't know where that came from and why, but Polly's eyes bulged and she grinned. "_Did he?"_

I gaped at her, annoyed. "_No_, Polly, Jesus!"

She reached forward and swatted at my arm jokingly, a strange smile on her face. "Calm down, Jane, I'm only teasing."

I sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the floor. I was overreacting...or was I? How would you react if your employer was going around the building spreading the rumor that you were probably fucking a particularly mean-looking guest in the bathroom of his room? I felt hot all over, and angry, wanting to march upstairs, find Estelle, and really give her a piece of my mind, once and for all. Tell her exactly what I thought of her, the hotel, and her dictator-style management. I'm pretty sure being a good manager doesn't include going around and fucking over your employees with bad rumors.

Suddenly, a thought entered my head, and I closed my eyes. "Oh my god, I hope Lois didn't hear about this..."

Lois knowing about this would be the key to an assisted suicide. If Estelle even breathed a word of it to Lois, she would be relentless, holding it over my head long after Jack checked out of the Palace.

But Polly shook her head reassuringly. "I don't think so, I think she just told me."

As if that made it any better.

I tightened the knot on the back of my apron and looked up at Polly. She had this look on her face that was particularly hard to read; she seemed sympathetic about Estelle spreading a rumor about me and Jack, but there was a strange, intuitive look in her eyes that suggested that she actually thought something _had _happened. Obviously she wasn't going to say anything more about it, but I could see it in her face. She was suspicious.

I tried to smile at her, but instead I felt like I was going to be sick. "I'll see you later."

I turned on my heel and left the break room, slamming the door open harder than I meant to, and stomping up the stairs to the third floor to start one wretchedly bad day.

**/**

301 was closed off, as per Estelle's orders, what with the stolen stuff and everything. But even the prospect of having one less room to clean was little comfort to me as I slowly made my way down the hall, cleaning out the rooms. The cereal-eating pervert had checked out, _thank god_, but when I came into the room to clean, there were little bits of cereal _everywhere! _On the carpet, on the desk, by the television, on the bedside table, on the pillows...I didn't even want to touch the bedsheets. When I eventually peeled them off the mattress, I had the strongest feeling that they should have been burned instead of thrown in the wash. No doubt there was a mass of cereal crumbs and back hair and skin cells and who knew what other oddities crawling all over them.

As I was going over the carpet with the vacuum cleaner, I thought about how nice it was that the cereal guy had moved on after what seemed like forever, and that he wasn't prolonging his stay with us...I had a feeling my rejections to his breakfast invitations had something to do with that, which was just as well. What would his nickname have been, floating around the hotel? Cereal Man? The Lucky Charms Charmer? Imagine what Estelle would have said if she had seen me and _him _coming out of his bathroom...not that he could have used any excuse to get me to go into the bathroom with him successfully. God, _that _would have been worse than Estelle going around saying she saw me and Jack going fully at it in the bathroom. At least Jack had looks, moreless, aside from the scars...the cereal man was just 100% repulsive.

I found myself dwelling on it more and more as I went from room to room; I dunno, there's something about cleaning rooms and the whole ritual of it that really makes your mind wander. I thought about the way Polly had talked about it all, it was so...weird, like she had missed an episode of her favourite soap opera and was expecting me to fill in the details of what she missed, or something like that. Some soap opera that took place in a crappy hotel...truthfully what had happened between me and Jack in the bathroom yesterday was almost the telltale beginning of a hardcore porn movie, forget the soap opera: the maid in her somewhat skimpy little outfit getting it on with the strange hotel guest in the bathroom. I had to laugh about it for a minute. I could totally see it, almost as if I was watching the stupid thing...

"_I'm sorry I didn't say anything about the mirror," says porno Jane, running her perfectly manicured hands suggestively over her breasts (which most definitely have implants), opening her perfectly tone thighs a little so her short skirt rides up even more, and shaking away bleached blonde hair instead of black hair. "Please don't hurt me, Jack."_

_Jack moves in and he's totally buff, wearing a pristine white wife-beater with a gold chain dangling around his neck. His hair is jet black and loaded with hair gel, and he has a mock tan and the uncanny physical appearance of an attractive Falcone goon; talks like one, too. "Don't worry, dollface. I ain't gonna hurt cha...much."_

_And then he goes in for the kill, porno Jack kissing porno Jane, and they're running their hands all over each other, hands grabbing at belts and buttons and lifting shirts and skirts until they're both completely naked and fucking stand and carry style under the spray of the shower, moaning and groaning away likes dogs in heat. Ridiculously bad music would be playing in the background throughout the whole thing._

I laughed for a moment. The stupid thing would be called _Pleasure at the Palace _or some shit like that.

I snickered about it as I was cleaning the next two rooms. In the Narrows in Gotham with only so many channels, you come across some pretty interesting movies and TV shows on late at night, not that I've watched too many of them, but it always surprised me how they all seemed so much the same, the same people and the same schtick every single time...I guess that's why the porn version encounter between Jack and Jane was so cliche.

I was pulling off the bedsheets in 304 when my mind started to wander, and for a moment I thought about how non-porno Jack was in reality. There's no way he'd ever wear a gold chain; the two earrings in the lobe I could see, but not a chain, he definitely wasn't one for jewelry. And there's no way he'd put gel in his hair. He didn't seem to like putting shampoo in his hair, forget about styling products.

And there wouldn't be that telltale porno lingo, either. Jack wasn't one for cheesy one-liners that bagged the girl; he'd just be his dark, intensely quiet, brooding self the entire time. I think if he wanted to have sex with you, he wouldn't corner you and say some goofy line that initiated coitus. No, he'd probably rip your clothes off with those toned arms of his, tower over you when you were totally naked, and not say a _word_. He'd just stare you down with those dark eyes of his while you stared up questioningly at him, wondering what he was going to do next, and when he took your shoulder and pressed you face first against the wall, or against the counter, taking your hips in his hands...he'd be a _hard_ lover, no doubt about it, make you shudder and gasp while he remained silent as the grave and not make a single sound but moved against you like you were being fucked by a statue made of alabaster...

...

Yeah...you've probably realized by now that I haven't had sex in a _long _time...but that's not important. Erm...so, anyway...

As I emptied the ashtray in 307, something from the previous day stood out in my head. Jack was quiet, and I mean _intensely_ quiet, and when he spoke he usually spoke in muttered growls and mumbles, his voice deep kind of like thunder, although sometimes it peaked and became a little higher, but that was rare.

How could a man so _quiet_ have a _laugh_ like _**that**_? That shrieking, high-pitched cackling...it was probably what had scared me most about the encounter in the bathroom, how it seemed to rise up from the bottom of his gut and erupt from his lips, compulsive and shocking, it rattled me.

It lingered with me, the sound of his laugh so sharp and shrill inside my head, even as I was walking down the street during my lunch hour, the sound of it blocked out everything: the road noise and the guys who ran the newspaper stands calling out the daily headlines. As I walked, I saw ahead of me the usual train of prostitutes that lined the wall along the sidewalk and I couldn't help but snicker to myself. Only in the Gotham Narrows do you see them lingering around in the daytime. Wonder what would have happened if Jack laughed at that one hooker, the one who recoiled so suddenly after seeing his face. Bet if she heard him laugh, she would have taken off in the other direction screaming.

I was still snickering a little, picturing the whole thing in my head (obviously I was having a very visual day that day) when I stepped up to the nearest hot dog vendor and asked for one with all the fixings, and as I took my first bite I wandered over to the newspaper stand to look at the headlines. No more news of the bat man, which was disappointing. Seems he only got to town and started fixing things and then decided to screw off and do something else. I sighed heavily; it wasn't too hard to see why, really. Gotham was circling the drain. I guess this ain't no place for no hero.

But just as I was about to wander off, something caught my eye. As I looked up to check out the home furnishing magazines and gardening tool catalogues, I noticed that in-behind the vendor, where the wall of cigarettes sat glistening in perfectly wrapped clear paper, there hung a line of small, stuffed plush toys; frowning little men dolls with downturned stitching for mouths, probably meant to make them look very intimidating, wearing grey body suits but with a mask on that hid their faces...a black mask with bat ears. Framed up next to them, like a business license from the city, was the front page reading _**Who is the Mysterious Batman? **_from a few days ago.

I nearly choked on my hotdog. Little Batman dolls! But it wasn't all that surprising, really. Batman paraphernalia was popping up everywhere since Batman had been spotted in the Narrows. There were T-shirts, coffee mugs, keychains...the most kitschy little souvenirs, right, that only the tourists would come and buy...not like there were many tourists wandering around the Narrows looking for the perfect souvenir to remind them of their trip to Gotham to take home to their kids.

But little Batman _plush toy dolls?_

"Excuse me, sir?" I asked, going towards the little old man running the newspaper stand, who looked at me very suspiciously as I was rooting around in my purse for money with one hand while I balanced the enormous hotdog in the other hand. I looked up at him, grinning. "How much for the Batman doll?"

The little man gave me this look as if to say _What in the hell are you talking about? _but then, as if remembering all of a sudden, his eyebrows perched and he looked over his shoulder at the dolls. He turned back towards me, smiling, as if I was inquiring about the best thing he was selling. "One doll, that'll be $4, girlie."

I fished out four crinkly bills and handed them over, still grinning like an idiot when the vendor handed me the doll and wished me the most sarcastic sounding _good day_ in a long time. But I didn't care. I felt like such a little kid, wandering around holding a doll, but hey, it was a Batman doll, after all. He had a little cape and everything!

And despite the fact the doll wasn't all that big, people were still looking at me funny as I walked by them, grinning in between eating a massive hot dog and looking down lovingly at the Batman doll as if it were my own child on the way back to the Palace.

**/**

The day had gotten a little better. Batman sat in my cart, where the complimentary shampoo bottles used to go, and every time I looked at him, with his scowling little face and his arms stretched out wide (probably to make him more bat-like), I couldn't help but smile. And as I pushed my cart down the hall towards 310, I kept looking at the doll, thinking that this was what it must have been like to cart around a baby in the grocery store.

As soon as I knocked on the door to 310, all the memories of the previous evening flew back to me, Batman doll be damned. Everything, the unveiling of the mirror, the confrontation in the bathroom, Jack's _laugh_, coming out of the room to see Estelle there, Jack smiling at me as I walked down the hall, smiling as if...as if...

But then I remembered what Polly had said that morning, and it all just seemed to glower over me like one of those ominous black animated rainclouds in a kid's show. It wasn't likely that Jack heard anything about what Polly had said, but just the thought of it made me miserable. Just how long would I have that hanging over my head? Only for as long as I worked at the Palace?

Letting out a little depressed sigh, I suddenly realized that Jack hadn't come to the door yet. Stranger yet, there were no sounds coming from inside. I leaned closer to the door and listened, but I couldn't hear anything. I rose my arm up again and knocked on the door, listening carefully, but only silence followed.

I shrugged a little, and reached into my skirt pocket to fetch the master key when all of a sudden I heard heavy footsteps schlepping towards me. Figuring it was Estelle, come to chew me out about something, or secretly gloat over what she said to Polly, I looked around with a frown on my face.

Jack, wearing his huge raincoat with his fists jammed in the front pockets, stopped in front of me, his brown eyes squinting at me curiously as he sucked at the insides of his scars. "Why the long face, cup-cake?"

He said it in a lilt, like we were old friends, and when I opened my lips to respond, Jack seemed to completely forget I was there, moving towards the door so briskly that I had to sidestep out of the way to avoid a collision. He already had his key in the lock when I finally found my voice.

"It's...just been a crappy day." I said, in a fairly crappy-sounding tone.

Jack smirked a little in his throat, working the doorknob by shaking it a little. "What a shame." he mumbled in the dullest voice possible, and pushed open the door wide, so that the knob settled against the far wall. Without looking at me, Jack moved into the room, taking off his raincoat, revealing his thin figure that the raincoat so unflatteringly swallowed.

I took the open door as good an invitation to come in as I was ever gonna get, so I gathered the clean sheets in my arms in a bundle and walked into the room. Jack turned the TV on and was flipping through the channels unceremoniously with a perturbed look on his face, while I stepped inside and put the sheets on the bedside table.

Something occurred to me right then. It was so strange...the room felt so different, almost like something horrible had been lifted from it. Like it had been haunted but then a priest had come to have it exorcised or something...

But I think what it was was Jack's air, his presence, the aura that surrounded him. For whatever reason, as I watched him standing in front of the TV, flipping the channels, I had a strange feeling come over me...something not unlike a feeling of...calm. But that was ridiculous; I doubt I could ever feel really calm with someone like Jack stalking around...but there was definitely something to it. A weird sort of...comfort, almost, had found its way into the air of 310.

It made me smile a little, as I was stripping the bed of the used bedsheets, folding them lazily into messy little squares of fabric while Jack continued to stand there flipping through the channels on the TV. Part of me wanted to say _There's only six of them, Jack. Pick one already. _But the peace in the room did not need to be disturbed by the antics of the maid.

As I was airing out the mattress cover and lying it flat against the mattress, Jack finally seemed to settle on a channel and set the remote down roughly on the edge of the desk, making me look up at him to assess whether or not he was getting grumpy. But he simply monitored something lying on the desk, with his back turned to me, and after a moment or two, he pulled the chair out from under the desk, sat down in it, and leaned forward to watch the TV.

I almost laughed right out loud; it was a pretty funny sight, this tall, gangly man sitting right in front of the TV, like a little kid anxious to see the newest episode of his favourite TV show. It was hard to read his facial expression, but his eyes were wide. I guess he liked watching Julia Childs make Crepes Suzette.

I took my time making the bed, enjoying the unmistakable sound of Julia Childs's voice while enjoying the peace that settled in the air. It was almost like being outside after it rained, that fresh, lush feeling...okay it wasn't like that entirely, but you know that feeling, you know what I mean.

It was only as I was slipping the pillow cases over the pillows that Jack stood up, and stretched his long arms up and over his head, and looked over at me inquisitively, as though he'd completely forgotten that I was there in the room with him. I smiled back at him delicately, not letting my gaze linger too long. Hard to believe that this man could be so frightening one day and the next so...harmless.

"So..." Jack said, in his high, sing-song voice, and I looked over at him curiously. His eyes were on me as he began to unbutton his dark brown shirt. "There's something I've been wondering..."

My breath caught in my chest, and my eyes darted to his skillful fingers so expertly unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt, and all of a sudden everything that Polly had said and what Estelle had told her and the stupid porn movie I made up in my head came rushing back to me. I cleared my throat, awkwardly, and went back to putting the pillow covers on the pillows. "What's that?"

He was quiet for a moment, although I could hear the slight ruffling of his shirt as he removed it. Fluffing up the pillows, I stole another glance at him, my eyes sweeping over him. Underneath the shirt he just discarded he was wearing a fairly crisp looking white wife beater that showed off his arms and the rest of what looked like a perfectly toned abdomen. Once again my breath hitched a little, scenes from _Pleasure at the Palace _flashing through my head again...except not with the obvious porno actors.

Jack twisted his head to the side, cracking his neck, and then he looked at me with big, inquiring eyes, and pointed at the bed. "How come you don't put uh, _welcome_ chocolates on the pillows?"

I blinked at him for a moment, stupidly, and looked down at the pillows that he was pointing to, and then I couldn't help but laugh right out loud at the ridiculousness of the comment. Welcome chocolates, what the fuck...the kind of place we had here, we might as well have been handing out welcome condoms on the pillows.

"Yeah..." I drawled, still giggling a little, as I took the last pillow between my hands and fluffed it, looking over my shoulder at Jack, who was considering my reaction curiously. "We're nowhere near as classy as that."

I watched as Jack frowned a little; obviously that was not the answer he was looking for. His eyes dulled a little and he smacked his lips and turned towards the desk, turning his back to me as he shuffled things around on the surface of the desk, like he was looking for something. "Mmph..." he replied quietly and casually. "You sure aren't."

It struck me off guard, the callousness of the comment, and the way it seemed to hit me like a slap in the face. Watching him for another moment as he looked at the contents flattened out on the desk, I felt my features tighten and I scowled a little, fluffing the pillow a little harder before practically throwing it down on the bed with the rest of them. But as my eyes swept over the length of the bed, taking in the dreadful floral pattern on the bedspread, and the cheapness of the pillows, and the way the digital clock sitting on the bedside table glowed the time in such sickly green colour that you could barely stand to look at it, I closed my eyes for a moment and shook my head. It wasn't a comment directed at me, and I knew it; I don't know why I had taken it so personally...maybe because of everything that Polly said that morning, and the prospect of rumours floating around the hotel about Jack and me and our suspicious activities in his room.

Still...it lingered with me more than it should have. For a moment, while Jack still had his back turned to me, I looked down at my maid uniform, the typical baby blue outfit complete with skirt, graying tennis shoes, and an apron with stains on the front. I had my hair casually thrown up in a high ponytail, and I wasn't wearing a trace of makeup or any jewelry except for my watch. I sighed a little; yeah, I guess he could argue that I wasn't classy. It was probably why I'd been at the Palace for so long to begin with.

I turned around and headed for the door, stopping the instant I came up to the bathroom with the door partially open. I remembered suddenly that I hadn't picked up the wet towels from the day before, and if I didn't replenish them, there was a chance Estelle would notice I was carrying too many clean towels again and give me hell for it. I cleared my throat and turned my head slightly over my shoulder. "Clean towels?"

Jack paused for a moment, and as I turned to look at him, he looked at me over his shoulder, his pale face silhouetted by the light from the window, making his eyes appear a startling rich brown. Without changing his expression, he simply smacked his lips again. "If you would be so kind."

I nodded once and went out to the cart, loading up clean towels in my arms and smiling at the little plush Batman sitting so snugly and securely in the shampoo bottle tray. The look on his little plush face was so funny, scowling as if he were saying _Want me to beat him up?_

Still smiling a little, I turned and went back into 310, placing my palm flat against the bathroom door before I stopped and remembered: this is how it all happened yesterday, with my head in the clouds. But Jack was too preoccupied with whatever it was he was looking for at his desk. Even when I opened the door a little bit, listening to it creak harshly, he didn't look at me to see what I was up to.

_This _must have been the calm that I was feeling in the room...the fact that he knew that I knew about the broken mirror, and since he seemed to trust I wasn't going to do anything about it, maybe he felt that all in all, I was pretty harmless.

Taking in a breath, I pushed the bathroom door open and went inside, flicking on the light, surprised to be met with the old towels, exactly where I had left them, but mostly to see that the curtain had been thrown up over the mirror again. I stopped and stared at it for a moment; presumably he had put the curtain up over the mirror so that the maid wouldn't see the broken glass (which obviously wasn't the best idea, since the curtain belonged in the other room and any maid in the world would have wanted to take it down and replace it). But if he didn't put the curtain over the mirror to hide it from the maid...did it put it there to hide it from...himself?

I let out a sad sigh through my nostrils, and looked over my shoulder for a moment, as though expecting to see Jack lingering in the doorway, watching me as I considered the curtained mirror. Poor Jack; obviously he had some real demons, and who could blame him, after what happened to his face.

As I slowly went about hanging up the clean towels and placing new wash clothes in the little rack, I wondered to myself if he would ever tell me about the scars one day, just offer up information, like we were two new friends getting to know each other. But the idea of it was pretty ridiculous; he didn't seem like someone who wanted to share his favourite food or colour, let alone how his face had been cut to shreds and sewn up so lousily.

But then again, he trusted me in the bathroom, and he trusted me not to tell anyone about the mirror. That wasn't really saying much; he knew that if I told anyone about the mirror, it'd mean my ass too, forget him. He could move on, go to another hotel, but I'd have to go job hunting and find another housekeeping position, and I was _not _in the frame of mind to do that.

With the clean towels in place, I retrieved the dirty towels, which weren't wet anymore but they were freezing cold to the touch, probably from being left lying around all wet. Taking the two towels in both hands, I turned off the bathroom light and moved to go towards my cart, when I was startled by Jack standing next to the bathroom, looking down at me curiously.

His eyes wandered over the towels, as if he forgot he asked me to replace them, and then he looked at me with this strangely unreadable look on his face. I stared up at him, wondering what he was going to do. Was he going to scowl and get mad, or say something unflattering again, or worse...was he going to _laugh? _

A moment passed and he didn't do anything, so I smiled a little bit and shrugged my shoulders. "All done."

Jack worked at the inside of his scars and regarded me for a little while longer, before his lips pulled up into a startlingly attractive little smile, like the lazy smile he had yesterday after I made him laugh in the bathroom, and for a moment my heart skipped a beat. "You're too good to me, doll."

I stood there staring at him, beaming a little on the inside. It wasn't exactly a _thank you,_ but it wasn't a sarcastic comment, and it wasn't an angry growl. I suddenly felt totally elated; all the bad thoughts that had clouded my day suddenly lifted, and all I could do was smile back at him. "Anytime."

With that, because I didn't want to linger too long and test his patience (despite the fact he seemed to be in a fairly decent mood), I turned around and headed out to the cart and loaded the dirty towels in. With my back turned, I heard the door close behind me, softly; not like a slam, or a brusque shut, but actually soft. I turned around and stared at the door for a moment, at the badly stained brass numbers that read 310, and continued to smile to myself.

To think: all it took to get on Jack's good side, to be able to go into his room and not fear for my life, to be able to look him in the eye and smile, like he was an old friend or something, was a creepy joke about my boss slaughtering the two of us, skinning us, and making us into a coat.

I snickered a little to myself as I slowly pushed the cart away. What had been so funny about that, anyway? If nothing else, it was kind of grotesque, but maybe that's what was funny about it to him. But then again, he was an odd one, there was no denying that. I guess he needed an odd sense of humour to go with his odd character.

I continued to smile; maybe I was the only one that Jack talked to in the entire hotel, but I was also the only one he probably _ever _smiled at in a _long time. _It was a pretty nice feeling, I don't mind telling you.

I continued down the hallway, feeling pretty great, when the door to 307 opened, and a sharply dressed man stepped out into the hallway, holding his door key like he had just walked in or something. He was looking down the hall, as if expecting someone (probably a hooker), so I just continued to push the cart, and if he happened to look my way, I would smile, wish him a good evening, and leave him be.

But of course, things don't ever go that smoothly at the Palace.

The man must have heard me coming, because he turned and looked at me. He was from the financial sector, I could tell right away: gorgeous suit, perfect haircut, and an average-looking face that was positively wrinkle or worry free, the product of a comfortable high level job or too many facials, I'm not sure which. He rose his eyebrows when he saw me coming.

"Uh, miss..." he said, and thumbed at the door. "Did you clean my room today?"

I smiled and stopped the cart to talk to him. Why did I have the feeling there was another _thank you _in the works here? I nodded politely. "Yes sir, I did."

"So..." he drawled for a moment, in a strange tone of voice that I couldn't quite decipher. "So then you cleaned the ashtray?"

I could feel my smile falter, and I turned my head to the side just a little. It was pretty typical to empty the ashtray when cleaning out a room...it wasn't like those ashes needed to be saved or anything. "...Yes sir."

The man lowered his arm, and suddenly looked at me in a bit of an accusatory glance. He then held up both his arms as if to say _what the fuck_. "...Are you stupid?"

Like being slapped in the face, I reeled a little, and blinked at him curiously, all traces of a smile completely gone. "...I'm sorry?"

"Oh, you're gonna play dumb now?" The man snapped, putting his fists in his hips and scowling at me tightly.

I stared at him, probably with a pretty dumbfounded look on my face. What the hell was he talking about? What was I supposed to be playing dumb about? I emptied the ashtray, so what? What was the big deal, that was part of cleaning the room! I continued to stand there looking at him questionably, and simply shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. "Uh-"

He sighed angrily and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "I had half a Romeo Y Julieta in that ashtray! _Half!_"

The man rose his voice, startling me, and I took a step back in case he was about ready to hit me or something. But as I stared at him, I didn't know what he was talking about. What the hell was a Romeo Y Julieta?

"And _you _threw it away, that's just great! That's just damn _peachy!_" He was getting more angry now, throwing his arms around like he didn't know what to do and growling and making angry sounds through his nose and in his throat.

I swallowed tightly; this was not how I wanted to end the day. Biting down on my lower lip, I thought frantically about what I could say to calm him down a little. I knew that if I didn't play my cards right, if I continued to infuriate him (however unwillingly), he would probably complain to management, and that was the _last _thing I needed.

"Sir, I-"

"That is a _Cuban _cigar," the man shouted clear in my face, pointing at me, and I took a step back, swallowing tightly so that I wouldn't start tearing up. "And not only does it cost more then what _you _make in a fucking week, but they're fucking hard to get! And _you _just _threw it away!_"

Oh shit...I'd heard once about how much the financial bigwigs liked their Cuban cigars. Once again I swallowed, trying to loosen up my throat that had gone dry. I hadn't appreciated the comment about my weekly salary, but this wasn't the time to get defensive. He was staring at me, expecting an explanation, so I tried frantically to think of something to say, anything. _C'mon Jane, you got Jack to laugh for you yesterday, you can do something to calm this guy down!_

"I-I'm sorry, sir." I muttered, and I could feel I was on the verge of tears. He continued staring at me like I was the most useless person he'd ever met in his life. I took in a deep breath and continued. "It was in the ashtray, so I just assumed-"

"Oh, great," he snarled, more exasperated then ever. His face had gone bright red. "You assumed, did you, with guest property? With guest property? I guess if I left my _shoes_ on the goddamned floor, you'd just _assume_ I wasn't going to _wear_ them so you'd throw _them_ out too?"

A tear slipped down over the apple of my cheek and I brushed it away, completely embarrassed. "Sir-"

He scoffed loudly in his throat, as if the sight of me crying was the icing on the _piss me off today _cake. "This is unbelievable," he snarled right in my face. "I wanna talk to your manager right now! Go get your manager!"

I felt my jaw start to tremble, but I bit down on my lower lip to make it stop. God, this was not gonna be good, Estelle was going to have a conniption fit when this asshole told her the whole story. Looking down, I grasped the handle to my cart and nodded rather pathetically. "Yes sir, I'll get her right now."

"Good!" The man said, and shook his head at me as I went down the hallway. "What a _joke_, a mother-fucking joke."

As soon as I was far enough away from 307, more tears continued to roll down my cheeks but I ignored them as best I could, my humility fading away to leave room for pure fury. I gripped the handle to the cart so hard that my knuckles went white, and I ground my teeth together; if only, if only there was something I could do to make the asshole _pay_, I'd make him pay for being such a prick. The housekeeping staff weren't there to be belittled and humiliated and abused, and how I'd love to make him see that.

When I got the cart into the maintenance closet, I was at risk of totally breaking down and sobbing, but I held it all back, wiping away my tears. _Keep it together, Jane. He's just a prick, he's a total asshole. Maybe he got fired today, maybe his wife's divorcing him, you don't know. He's just an asshole, don't worry about it, it'll be okay._

I calmed down long enough to consider that perhaps Estelle would see my reasoning, understand my side of the story, and side with me for a change instead of the asshole guest. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed completely unlikely. I hugged myself for a moment, prepping myself up to go find Estelle and tell her that there was an unruly guest in 307 who was totally pissed off and wanted to see her. She was _not _going to be pleased.

The little Batman plush doll was staring at me and when I looked at him, suddenly I couldn't help but smile. I loved how the design of his facial expression made him look all mean and serious, like he was ready to kick ass. I leaned over and picked him up, running my fingers up along the bat-shaped mask that covered his face, and for just a single moment, I couldn't stop smiling. For whatever reason, the doll was a strange sort of comfort right then and there.

I sighed heavily, cradling the Batman doll in my arms, looking down at it and smiling.

_Don't worry_, I imagined the Batman doll saying in an extremely deep voice, which made me a laugh a little. _I'll get this clown when he least suspects it._

_**/**_


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **LONG author's note here, I'm afraid; I just have a few things to say. First off, a very, very special thanks to **ujemaima, psychadelicious, corbsxx, Btch, Other, golden peaches, pourquoibella, Cleonie Quinn, mehar23mia, elfenwindakachrno, Kate-Smiles, linalove, Laurenmlbc, Draven98, Lady-night-shade04, Charl, anna, TinkerbellxO, Lady Liesel, SleepyHeather, JordanGoombette, trickstersink, shamenteen, PurgatoryNymphe, Dissolved Starr, Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, Nii, KorroksApostle, anonymous, AmberCyn, lov3tan, **and **Moz. **If I could, I would send you all a Batman plush doll. :D Thanks so much for your awesome feedback, everyone; it totally inspired me to write this chapter super fast.

There's a story/movie inconsistency in this chapter that I just wanna warn you about now: in the movie, after Batman is in the Narrows and Crane fear-gasses him, we learn from Alfred that there's a span of two days between that incident and the day of the birthday and the film's climax. In this story, there's obviously a much bigger time gap, which I had to do in order to expand the character development. Just wanted to warn you.

Tomorrow I'm going out of the country on vacation and won't be back for two weeks. I don't know if I'll have internet, but I promise I will respond to you all as soon as I come home.

Now, onto the chapter. It's a BIG one, 23 pages, but I think you're gonna like it. ;)

* * *

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Eleven**

**/**

The only thing Estelle said about her conversation with the completely ballistic asshole in 307 is that we would discuss it during Monday morning's housekeeping meeting. That made the entire weekend the monster's ball before the execution, basically. I nearly bit the bullet and asked her just to give it to me straight, yell at me, punish me, whatever it was she was eventually going to do; the thought of having to spend the glorious weekend worried about it, and then have it all recited in front of the other girls on Monday was more despairing then anything in the world. But there was a particularly irate look in her eyes that made me swallow and bite back the question. Sure, I could wait until Monday. No big deal.

In the end, it was just as well. I was completely bummed out for the rest of the day, moping on the train ride home and wandering aimlessly around my tiny apartment between tears and sips of vodka. Henry watched me from his spot on the armchair with this confused look on his face, and when I finally collapsed in bed, curling around one of my pillows and sniffing rather pathetically, he jumped up on the bed and rubbed his face into my arm, suspecting that the lady of the house needed a little cheering up.

The more I tried not to think about the whole thing, the more it bothered me. It's one thing to have vomit-inducing cereal guys try to hit on you, or having tall, brooding, scarred guys laugh their freaky laugh at you, but getting totally bitched out by some pretentious prick really bites. What stood out most to me, I think, was how he asked me if I was stupid. Somehow that hurt worse then anything. Just because I was young and I was working as a maid in a disgusting hotel instead of going to university didn't mean I was _stupid_. I was _not _stupid.

Henry meowed loudly and rolled onto his side, pressing his paws into my arm and looking up at me with his big green eyes as if to say _What are you so upset about, you've got your favourite cat, vodka, and two days at home. Stop moping._

That cheered me up completely. I've never been able to explain to dog-people just what it is about cats that totally lift your spirits and make you forget about everything.

The glorious weekend consisted of very limited activities, such as sleeping way late into the morning, watching ridiculously bad daytime television shows, still in my pajamas, while eating Special K, and long cuddles and snuggles with the man of the house, who obviously felt he deserved the attention when he literally flopped onto a magazine I was reading while sitting on the couch. By the time 4:00pm rolled around come Saturday afternoon, I decided that a trip to the market was in order, both to get something for dinner and to pick up another bottle of my favourite paint-thinner flavoured vodka.

It was a wet day, hence the staying in bed way into the A.M., and I marched along in my grey sweats and purple hoodie towards the market, which luckily sat just a few blocks away from my apartment. There were few people out wandering the streets that afternoon, but come evening it would be aflutter of activity; drunkards would come swaying out into the streets from the bars, hiccuping and starting arguments with fire hydrants, while the local gang boys would stand around on the sidewalk corners, sharing cigarettes, cursing creatively, and sizing up anyone who even dared to walk past them. The hookers with their brightly coloured wigs and sequined mini skirts would stick out their legs adorned in fluorescent-coloured leggings and rub themselves provocatively whenever someone pulled up to the curb to offer to take them for a ride. The Narrows in the daytime is the last thing next to Paradise, but the Narrows at night is the last place you _ever _wanna be.

The little corner market is run by a very hard-looking Greek man in his early forties who always looks at me suspiciously when he sees me come through the door, as if he can't quite decide whether I'm just an ordinary girl struggling to get by living in the Narrows, or if I'm some heroin addicted whore who's going to use his bathroom to shoot up. I always give him the same polite smile and keep my hands visible at all times; my gut instinct tells me he has a shotgun hidden under the counter.

I picked up the essentials: canned tuna for his highness, a bottle of my favourite brand of vodka, a Caesar salad kit, tampons, and a bag of juice berry candies. I was walking towards the counter with my items in tow through the candy aisle when suddenly my eyes rested on a bag of Reisen chocolates. I stopped and looked at it for a moment, smiling just slightly. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a Reisen; when I was a kid, I just loved how they tasted like chocolate ice cream when they were soft enough to chew. It was making my mouth water.

Then, all of a sudden, I remembered what Jack had said the previous day. _How come you don't put, uh, welcome chocolates on the pillows?_

I don't mind telling you, I was more than tempted to buy the Reisens, take them with me to work, and start putting the individually wrapped chocolates on Jack's pillows every time I cleaned the room. He seemed like someone who could use a little cheer, a little gesture of welcome here and there. As far as I knew, he didn't really have a home; he'd been staying at the Palace for nearly two weeks and hadn't said or hinted that he would be moving on anytime soon. Did he have a family? Somehow I doubted it, but at the same time, perhaps he was married but on the verge of divorce...maybe that would explain his isolation as well as his general grumpiness and awkwardness around people.

No...that wasn't it. Jack was so strange that you couldn't even imagine a woman who could put up with his erratic mood swings and intimidating presence, or the way he dressed himself. But then where did he go all day? He disappeared for hours at a time, I knew that; did he have friends to visit? Did he even have a job?

Sighing, I reached out to take the bag of Reisens, determined to show Jack that he was welcome at the Palace...well, as welcome as you _can _feel at the Palace.

But I paused...because a part of me knew that if I left chocolates for Jack, that he'd become suspicious. He'd become defensive, wondering what I was playing at, and then he'd corner me the same way he cornered me in the bathroom. He said it himself, _don't do me any favours. _

So I left the Reisens on the shelf and walked up to the counter.

**/**

I was sipping cool vodka, watching a bad late movie, and lazily stroking Henry, sitting in my lap, when I heard the screaming.

My head twisted immediately to the left, to the window, because it sounded like it were coming from outside. Normally in this side of the Narrows, a little screaming is nothing to get too worked up about. Using it's a couple of drunkards who are laughing so hard they're screaming, or it's someone getting mugged, or a whole assortment of other causes. I remember how scared I was when I first moved in and heard screaming downstairs in the street and I had been too freaked out to look out the window. Now, it felt more common to me than having a drink after getting home from work.

Although I knew almost instantly that this wasn't like all those other times; something was wrong. There was screaming outside, real genuine _horrified _screaming...and it wasn't just one person.

Shooing Henry off my lap, I set down my glass of vodka and went to the window hurriedly, drawing back the curtain and looking out into the night. From my window, you get a glimpse of the street down below, but there's typically nothing to see, and tonight was no different; the street was alight with the glow from the streetlamp, but the road and the sidewalks were vacant. Puzzled, I felt my eyebrows knit together as I tried to get a better look down the street, and even contemplated opening the window and leaning out. For a moment, it seemed like everything had calmed, that maybe the screaming I had heard was something (relatively) harmless going on in the streets. Frowning, and sticking a hand on my hip, I drummed my fingers on the windowsill and looked over at Henry, who was surveying me from his comfortable spot on the couch, giving me this look as if to say _Screaming in the Narrows ain't nothing new, cupcake._

I glanced out the window once more, only to convince myself that there really wasn't anything going on down in the streets, and I broke away to collect my vodka off the coffee table and take a long sip.

My throat burned as the alcohol went down, and then I heard it again, the screaming; nearly dropping my glass back down on the coffee table I rushed to the window and forced it open, sticking my head out and looking down onto the streets.

People were running through the streets, whole hordes of people who enjoyed the night life, running as fast as their legs could carry them, flailing their arms about and screaming, I mean _really _screaming; I stood up on my tippy toes to see if I could get a glimpse at what was the matter, but all I could see was the people running.

And then, all of a sudden, I could hear screaming erupt in the hallway behind me. Looking over my shoulder, Henry was hissing at the front door, and closing the window I rushed to the door and pressed my ear against it, listening intently. There was someone screaming somewhere in the building, followed by the sounds of other residents probably checking to see what the commotion was. Throwing caution into the wind for a moment, I unlocked my door and stepped out to see what was happening.

The hallway was a frenzy of sudden activity; the more screaming there was, the more my neighbors left their apartments armed with bats and crowbars and the like, as though the building was overrun with intruders. I lingered in the doorway, watching as the men charged through with their weapons of choice while their wives or girlfriends stood in the door, just as I was, desperately wanting to see what was happening, but forbid by the men of the house to leave the doorstep.

My neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Bellamy, who was a very cranky woman with an even surlier husband, was clutching together the folds of her housecoat and grasping her hair, all done up in curlers, as if it was going to fall right off her head. Obviously Mr. Bellamy had run off same as the other men.

But the moment she saw me, she frown tightly and began to point her finger at me. "Jane you get inside and you lock the door and don't come out til it's mornin', ya hear?"

More screaming erupted, but not all of it came from within the building. "What's happening?" I yelled across the hall to Mrs. Bellamy.

She was in the midst of closing the door when she opened it a little and yelled out to me. "Them crazies from Arkham Asylum's runnin' loose all over the Narrows!"

And then she slammed the door.

Panic swelled up in me all of a sudden, like being splashed with a great gush of icy cold water, and taking a step back into my apartment, away from all the screaming and yelling and shouting, I slammed the door, threw myself against it, and locked all the locks as fast as I could with trembling fingers. My heart was pounding in my chest, but as soon as the door was secure, I stepped back and listened.

For a moment I tried to relax and considered what Mrs. Bellamy had said. Was it really possibly that the inmates of Arkham Asylum had escaped? _All _of them? When had this happened? _Why _had it happened? The security around that place was tighter than any prison I knew of, how was it possible that the inmates had escaped?

Whatever the reason, I wasn't taking any chances. I rushed into my bedroom and collected my baseball bat from where it was leaning against the bedside table, and then going into the kitchen, I pulled open once of my utensil drawers and pulled out the biggest, sharpest butcher knife I could find. Going into the living room with a bat in one hand and a knife in the other, Henry looked at me as if I was Commando Jane ready to kick some ass.

But truthfully, I wasn't ready to kick some ass. I was shaking, praying that the inmates wouldn't find their way to my door.

The screaming intensified outside the window, and Henry became so rattled that he jumped off the couch and went padding into my bedroom, presumably to hide under the bed until it was all over. I moved away from the door carefully, going towards the window and taking another moment to look out, but instead of being met with a horde of screaming people on the road beneath my window, everything was hazy.

It was like a thick, white fog had settled itself on the street, distorting the light from the streetlamp and making the road beneath it disappear almost completely. For a moment, I frowned deeply and lowered my weapons. What in the hell was that?

More screaming came from the streets, and finally the fog was so thick that it was hard to see anything outside the window, so I moved away from it, making sure it was shut and locked. The drama inside the building had seemed to settle a little, but there was heavy conversation even outside my door by several people, I could hear it, like they had all gotten together to discuss what was happening.

Cautiously, I moved towards the door without planning to open it, and gnawing on my lower lip I pressed my ear up against the door to see if I could pick up anything that they were saying.

It sounded like my neighbors, all right, but I couldn't hear much of what they were saying...I could only pick up a few key words here and there: _Arkham...inmates...all over...fear...something in the air...downtown...Narrows...Batman..._

Somehow, the moment I heard someone say _Batman_, I felt considerably more calm. I let out a deep breath and lowered the bat in one hand, thinking that my neighbors outside were calm enough that I could probably let my guard down if only by a little.

Surely whatever was happening, Batman was here somewhere, he was here in the Narrows doing something to save us, whatever that might have been. Moving back, I sat down on the arm of the couch and continued to listen to the muffled conversation outside my door, as well as the screaming coming from the streets outside my window. I don't know how long I sat there like that, I expect only until the screaming finally started to subside to the point where all I could hear was the hurried conversation outside my door. Feeling slightly more confidant, I let the bat rest on the couch but clutched the butcher knife protectively to my side as though someone would come bursting through the door at any moment.

But when nothing happened, I swallowed through the lump in my throat, and downed the rest of my vodka in the glass in one gulp, grimacing at the burn before going into the kitchen for a refill.

I sighed heavily as I leaned against the kitchen counter and bowed my head to my chest, listening to my heart slowly return to a more natural speed. By the time everything had quieted and I had gone hunting for Henry under the bed, it was 1:20 in the morning. Drowsy from the alcohol and all the excitement, I checked again to make sure the door was locked, and fell into bed.

/

As soon as I woke up, groggy from lack of sleep and slightly hungover from overindulging in vodka over the course of the long night, I got up out of bed and went directly to the TV, turning it on and finding it all there, everything explained: the upheaval of Arkham Asylum that resulted in emptying every single patient into the Narrows, the strange fear gas that scared people so badly that some had gone so far as to attack one another, the crash of the city train downtown just before it hit Wayne tower, that idiot Bruce Wayne's drunken debacle at his own birthday party -resulting in burning his century-year-old family manor right down to the ground- and finally, and most importantly, how Batman had saved Gotham City. It had been a very busy night.

I spent the majority of the afternoon curled up on the couch, still in my pajamas, with my eyes glued to the television. As it had turned out, that gorgeous doctor at Arkham Asylum Jonathan Crane had either gone completely nuts or was nuts to begin with, and had a play in the whole thing. Hard to believe that just a few short weeks ago I was watching him make an address on behalf of the asylum. Even more shocking was the news that he had been experimenting on his patients, like they were everyday lab rats, with the same fear toxin that was still floating around in the Narrows, waiting for our greedy lungs to suck it right in and go crazy with fear.

I watched the whole report feeling sick to my stomach. There were some real creatures that lived in this city, especially in this end of the city.

But what was even more along the lines of _what the fuck is going on _was that the city rail in downtown Gotham had crashed, that somehow Batman had derailed the train so it wouldn't collide with Wayne Enterprises and instead crashed into the streets below. Watching the footage of the wreck, I couldn't believe my eyes; so many things had happened overnight, and yet when you're in the Narrows, you don't hear much of what's going on downtown.

The wonderful thing that had come from all this, I found, was that Batman was finally deemed a hero. I couldn't help smile as I watched the news anchor interview several police officers about the ordeal, who generally praised Batman for his bravery. Obviously not everyone was thrilled about his vigilantism that continued to show up Gotham's finest, but if you ask me, it was about time someone had stepped up and took out the trash, so to speak. Where would Gotham have been, right at that moment, if it weren't for Batman?

All in all, it was very exciting. Gotham had a hero to call its own, and just in time too, as the police were sending out bulletins warning people in the Narrows to stay indoors or wear a face mask when going outside because of the fear toxin floating around; but they were also warning us to keep a look out for escaped Arkham patients in their orange jumpsuits, despite the fact that they were doing everything in their power, including enlisting in the help of Batman, to track down all the escaped patients.

**/**

The next morning, I had never been so happy to reach the Palace at such a dreaded time in the morning. Adorned in a face mask, and carrying around my butcher knife in my purse, I had literally run from the train to the hotel hardly taking the time to look at anything or notice anyone. The streets were next to deserted; there were police cars going in every direction, probably trying to catch all the escaped inmates.

When I got inside the door of the Palace, the mildewy air had never smelled sweeter as it did when I took off the face mask, and finding that the front desk was unattended, I went into the break room and was immediately met with Polly's frightened glance, who then sighed in relief when she saw it was only me.

"Jane, Jesus...you scared the shit out of me," she breathed, and sat back in her chair at the table, pushing her hair back. "Sorry, I've been on edge all night. I don't think I slept at all."

"You and me both," I said, taking off my jacket and hanging it up, feeling a little more relaxed knowing that I wasn't the only one who was probably freaking out more than I should have about the whole thing. I came over to the table and sat down next to her, where she had a copy of the paper lying flat on the table surface. "What's going on, any news?"

"Not really," Polly said, leaning on her fist and looking down at the paper. "The police have captured a few inmates; they're taking them to Blackgate, y'know, on the other side of the city?"

"Why?" I asked, skimming over the paper briefly, looking at the headline that read _**Drunken Billionaire Burns Down Home **_with a full picture of the wreckage. I scowled and shook my head. Funny thing there was Bruce Wayne could just rebuild the damn thing, it wouldn't teach him a lesson at all.

I put the paper down and returned to the conversation at hand. "I mean...Arkham's still functional, isn't it? The place didn't blow up or anything, did it?"

Polly shook her head, running her fingertips under her eyes, trying to mask the great big dark circles that were there. She looked exhausted, and we had a long day ahead of us. "I don't know, the papers don't really tell you a whole lot."

Looking at her sympathetically, I rested a hand on her arm and stood up. "I'm gonna make some coffee."

She groaned happily in her throat, and leaned over on the table. "Thank you."

I smiled a little and went over to the coffee maker, and fetched a filter from the cupboard as well as the can of coffee grounds sitting next to it. When Polly didn't say anything more, I looked over at the door to Mr. Halterstead's office, which was closed and dark, as per usual, but it bugged me a little more than it usually did; you'd think what with the crisis that was going on in the Narrows that day, that the man would have taken some time to come in and do some actual managing. Then again, I guess that's what Estelle was for.

The absence of someone else suddenly popped into mind, and I paused measuring the coffee grounds with the scoop and looked at Polly over my shoulder. "Where's Martin?"

Polly turned a page in the newspaper, absent-mindedly. "He went to be with his daughter...in case any crazies from Arkham show up at her door. It's just her and her baby; they live alone, y'know."

I nodded, smiling to myself just a little, and turned back to the coffee. That was pretty nice of Martin. Being the older gentleman he was, I wasn't sure he'd actually be able to tackle an inmate if they broke in, but he did love duck hunting in his youth, so he told me, and kept several of his rifles around, for nostalgic sakes as well as home defense, and no time like the present to make use of them, if need be. I turned on the machine to start the brewing when I suddenly thought of my parents, living it up in fancy Metropolis while their youngest daughter all but disappeared in the Narrows. Had they heard of what happened? But of course they must have. Metropolis wasn't exactly far from Gotham, surely they'd have heard by now.

I sighed, watching the brewed coffee drip into the stained pot, thinking how nice it would be for my dad to show up all of a sudden and insist on staying with me through this ordeal, if only for one night.

I turned around and leaned against the counter thoughtfully, when I heard the front door open and slam and Lois came walking in, hotly, with her scarf wrapped around her face. Polly and I both looked up at her in amazement as she dropped her big purse and literally tore the scarf from her face. She was flushed and obviously pissed off.

"Is this a _fucking gong-show _or what?" She snarled as she walked past me to hang up her coat, and Polly and I exchanged brief looks of nervousness. "Can't even breathe the _air_ in this goddamn city anymore without getting killed!"

Huffing, she collected her bag from where it sat on the floor and slumped down into a chair across from Polly, rummaging through her bag and pulling out her nail file, as though filing her fake nails was therapeutic. "And now I can't turn on the damn TV set without hearing about that Batman. Batman _this, _Batman _that..._the police are treating him like he's the best thing that's ever happened to this stupid city."

"He _is_," Polly literally growled under her breath, taking both me and Lois by complete surprise, and looking up to behold Lois' appalled expression, she threw her arms up in the air. "Let's face it, Lois; where the hell would this city be without Batman right now? We'd be breathing in that fear gas shit and scaring ourselves to death, that's what!"

Lois gaped at her, as though she were speaking utter nonsense. "We're breathing that fear gas shit in _now_, Polly; where the hell have you been? And here's something else," she pointed a long, bubblegum pink fingernail at Polly. "It's _because _of Batman we have these weirdos putting fear gas in the water and letting loose all the patients out of Arkham."

"Yeah, cause that makes a whole lotta sense. Batman just...opened the doors to Arkham Asylum and told them to _come on_ _out_ and run amok, that's totally what happened," Polly retorted, sounding more angry than sarcastic. I think her exhaustion was taking a greater toll on her than she first perceived.

The coffee maker dinged behind me, so I reached up to the cupboard to take out three plain white mugs and set them down on the counter before taking the coffee pot and pouring coffee into the three mugs.

"Oh _please_," Lois droned behind me. "If an everyday citizen is gonna go out and do good for the city, that makes like...20 genuinely bad people who are gonna go out and retaliate, that's the way this city works."

I brought the three coffee mugs to the table, not catching Polly's counter-argument as I absent-mindedly poured milk into my coffee and stirred it thoughtfully, taking gradual sips and, after grimacing from its bitterness, decided that it definitely needed sugar.

At this point Lois looked like she was going to explode, her face was so red. She finally looked at me and held out her hand expectedly. "Jane, c'mon, help me out here. The Batman's a loon, right? They might as well throw _him_ in Arkham with the rest of the monsters, once they catch them all. Am I right or am I right?"

Tearing the decade-old sugar packets open and pouring the sugar into my coffee, I looked down at the table and shook my head. "Sorry, I'm with Polly on this one. I think the Batman's a hero."

A strange silence settled between the three of us at the table. Without looking up, I imagined Polly crossing her arms and smiling smugly at Lois, and Lois just gaping at me with that stupid expression on her face that she sometimes had.

But then, looking up, Lois just scoffed and waved her hand at me as though my opinion didn't matter at all. "What d'you know, you've obviously got a soft spot for freaks. I'm sure the Batman would be right up your alley."

Gripping the coffee mug tightly between my hands, I was about to open my mouth with full-on retaliation, when the front door opened once again, and all three of us turned and looked towards the door of the break room.

Estelle came lumbering in, much to our relief, looking flushed and frantic; looking at the three of us for a moment, she nodded her head in greeting. "Good morning." And then, pulling the chair out from under the table, she took a seat next to Lois and began rubbing her face with her hands. We all sat quietly, expectantly, wondering what she was going to say about the whole ordeal.

Finally she spoke, with one side of her face pressed into the palm of her meaty hand, looking like she was just as ready to pass out as the rest of us. "All right...well, I'm sure you're all wondering what's going to happen now that everything has...happened. I talked to Mr. Halterstead this morning, and we decided that we are...well, we're going to stay open."

This came as no real surprise to me. If I had thought for one moment that Estelle and Mr. Halterstead would have agreed to close down the hotel, I wouldn't have bothered making the trip from home to get there on time for the maintenance meeting. Neither would the other girls, probably. But across the table, Lois looked as if she had just been given the biggest letdown of her life. Polly, sitting next to me, said nothing and kept her gaze on the table top.

"Now obviously we'll be taking extra precaution as to who we let rent a room for the next couple of days, but moreless, business remains the same as usual. We don't wanna be throwing anyone out, but we don't wanna let in the Arkham crazies, obviously. We're just gonna be on the look out, y'hear?" Estelle looked at each of us directly, and we had nodded in quiet agreement.

Immediately Lois had to bark up. "Who's gonna watch the desk?"

Estelle sighed, and though she'd had more than enough of Lois to last her the day. "Martin will be back around 10, and I'll be on patrol, as usual."

I felt Polly tense next to me. She obviously felt that Martin protecting his daughter and her infant child was more important than his job manning the desk of a shitty, broken-down hotel. It crossed my mind too, but for a fleeting moment, and perhaps rather selfishly, I was relieved to know that he would be coming back. We were four women working alone in the hotel, after all. We were fairly vulnerable.

For a brief fleeting moment, I thought of Jack upstairs in 310. Would he have done something, say...if a murderous Arkham patient had found his way into the hotel and was looking to cause some mischief? He was tall and intimidating and fairly toned...I bet an Arkham patient would take one look at Jack and go running off in the opposite direction.

I smiled to myself for a moment. If I had gone to Jack, maybe he would have helped. Maybe he would have gone so far as to protect me, if there was a potential danger in the hotel. That'd show Lois...that'd _really _show her.

Gauging all our reactions, Estelle sighed and shook her head. "It'll be all right, ladies. I don't know if you've noticed, but they've got the entire police force going up and down the streets, they're gonna find these guys and life will go back to normal. For now, let's all just try and keep our heads and do our jobs, yes?"

Lois promptly nodded while Polly, reluctantly, also nodded her head, and then I did too. Estelle sat up straight. "Well then, let's begin the day, shall we?"

Polly stood up without another word and left the break room without touching her coffee or looking at anyone. It wasn't hard to see that she was pissed, probably a combination from lack of sleep and Lois's ignorance and then Estelle's casual brush-off of the whole situation. I didn't blame her, not for a second, but oddly I wasn't feeling nearly as worried as I probably should have been.

As soon as Lois wandered out of the break room, Estelle stood up and snapped her fingers at me. "Jane, before you start, I want to talk to you about something."

I stood up dusted my hands off on my apron, and then paused for a moment. I could have laughed to myself, thinking that it wasn't going to happen. Despite everything that had happened, despite the fear gas in the water and the escaped Arkham patients and the Batman saving the city, I had still thrown away half a Cuban cigar on Friday, and obviously Estelle wasn't about to let me forget it.

Estelle rubbed her face once more, not really looking at me, and I prepared myself for the onslaught I knew was coming. "Jane, the replacement appliances for room 301 will arrive tomorrow, so I'd like you to go in and give it a thorough clean, okay?"

I froze, and then I frowned. Was that all? Perhaps she _had _forgotten about the Cuban cigar from Friday. Perhaps the asshole hadn't given her as hard a time as I figured he would; maybe he even went so far as to tell her that he had overreacted and shouldn't have left his cigar in the ashtray if he didn't want it thrown away.

I waited, but it seemed as though that was the only thing Estelle wanted to discuss.

Like an idiot, I gaped at her in amazement, and managed to nod my head. "O-Okay, uh...how do I get into the room?"

Estelle waved her hand at me. "I'll be up after Martin gets in and I'll unlock it, probably about 10:30 or so."

I nodded, regarding her for a moment in case she actually was just waiting to bring up the Cuban cigar thing, but she gave me look as if to say _what _and I just nodded once again and smiled a little. "Sure thing, Estelle. Sounds good."

And I slipped past her into the lobby to make my way up the stairs to the third floor, secretly doing a happy dance the entire way.

**/**

The third floor was nearly empty, save for a guest in 304 and Jack in 310, but I liked the fact that it was quiet. The Cuban cigar guy was gone, which was a complete relief; I had a feeling that if he saw me again, he wouldn't mind tearing into me a second time, and then reciting the whole ordeal back to Estelle so that she _would _remember about the Cuban cigar and punish me after all, and probably punish me a little extra for letting her forget and thinking I could get away with it. But luckily, he was gone, and the floor was blessedly quiet as I made my way through the rooms, except for 301, but it could wait.

The Batman doll was there to greet me when I turned on the light to the maintenance closet. He was sitting perched on my cart, exactly where I had left him, looking rather fierce, if I do say so myself. I smiled widely the moment I set eyes on him.

"Well, Batman..." I cooed at the little doll, and put my keys in my apron pocket before picking him up. "You've become quite the hero, and yet you've decided to stay here with little ol'me all day? You're quite the gentleman!"

Anybody walking by who might have heard me would have thought I was nuts.

Once again the Batman doll accompanied me to each room on the third room, proudly, and I was happy to see that each room was basically as I'd left it; I guessed there hadn't been too many people renting out a room to fuck a prostitute in when they're running from Arkham inmates and breathing in fear gas. But it was pretty great; all I had to do really was dust, make sure there were towels and stuff, and make sure everything was in working order, and then move on to the next room.

Considering how angry the Cuban cigar man had been on Friday, he had left 307 in pretty tip-top condition. I figured he had been mad enough at me that he could have made a total slob of himself and obliterated the room in whichever way he saw fit, just to piss me off. But I was surprised, and equally very grateful, to find that it was actually just about as clean as I would have made it. He had even tried to make the bed, which tugged at my heart a little, almost as though he had left some sort of apology by trying to make my job easier. Perhaps he had just been having a really bad day, and me throwing out his expensive Cuban cigar wouldn't have helped in the least. Hell, I'd probably have been mad too.

When I took a break for lunch, I tried the knob to 301 and found that it was still locked, and my eyebrows knit together in confusion. Estelle had said she'd unlock it once Martin got in, and that he was coming in at around 10:30...perhaps he hadn't made it in after all?

But once I got to the lobby, there he was, sitting at the desk and reading the newspaper. I have a theory that Martin reads the newspaper all day long and memorizes every single headline. You ask him what's in the news and he can recite at least twenty different stories to you without batting an eyelash. But seeing him confused me even further. Here he was, so where was Estelle?

"Hi Martin," I said, smiling, as I came up to the desk, and he looked up at me and his eyes lit up, like they always do when he sees someone he recognizes.

"Hey there Jane," he said happily. He looked exhausted, with big circles under his eyes, just like the rest of us, and his silvery hair was totally askew, but he was still smiling. Good ol'Martin; the Narrows could be in a state of damn near emergency and he'd still be smiling. "Glad to see you got to work in one piece."

I nodded, leaning on the front desk. "Tell me about it, what a nightmare...how's your daughter doing?"

"Oh, she's good," Martin said, nodded. "Yeah, uh, she's got her boyfriend with her, a big fella, he was gonna stay with them all day, I think."

I gave him a half-hearted smile. That was good to hear; even if her dad had to work his crummy job during a panicky time, at least Martin's daughter had a nice big boyfriend to come over and watch over them. But the thought immediately made me sad. My dad was off in Metropolis, and I didn't have a boyfriend...who was around to protect Jane? Skinny, defenseless Jane? Sure I didn't have a baby, but I had a cat, and he needed protecting too.

Jack once again flitted across my mind, but I shook my head and smiled at the ridiculousness of the thought. How exactly would he have reacted if I asked him to come home with me and watch over me and my cat in case someone broke in? I didn't even want to know.

"Uh, listen Martin..." I said, returning to the task at hand. "Estelle was supposed to come upstairs to unlock 301, d'you know where she's at?"

"Oh yes, uh..." Martin thought for a moment, and then nodded as if he suddenly remembered. "She had to run a few errands, she said, and then she had to pick up a few things. Said she'd be back probably around 1:00 pm or so."

I sucked in an apprehensive breath, wondering why she had taken off when she said she wanted 301 cleaned, but then again if she had to pick some things up, it was probably the replacement appliances for the room, and then I could clean it. Either way, I nodded. It was noon, and once I was finished lunch she'd come by and open the door to the room and I could get it done before cleaning 310 and finishing up for the day. It was all good.

"Thanks Martin." I smiled at him, and went around the desk into the break room to get my peanut butter sandwich.

**/**

1:00 pm came and went, and there was no Estelle, but I put it to the back of my mind by finishing the rest of the rooms on the third floor. 305 had needed an intense cleaning after it looked like the guest spilled alcohol everywhere and threw the mini bottles down just to spite the hotel itself. The sheets I pulled from the bed were discoloured and soaked, and I washed my hands extra thoroughly after disposing them in my cart, feeling repulsed. I swept over all the pieces of furniture with a wet rag, wondering how on earth the guest had gotten brandy, or whatever the hell it was, on the television screen, inside the bathtub when the bathtub clearly hadn't been used, and even on the window sill. What the hell had this guest been doing, exactly? Getting totally plastered and then dancing around the room, unknowingly spilling his poison everywhere?

It was very exasperating and took a _long _time to clean everything up. When I pushed my cart down to 310, I was very annoyed, and knocked on the door with a little more strength then I intended, so that my knocks sounded pissed off. Jack wasn't going to like that.

But surprisingly, as I waited and listened for him to come to the door, I was only met with silence. After a moment or so I knocked again, and again was met with the same silence. I stepped back and stuck my hands on my sides. Sure, Jack came and went all the time, but there was _fear gas_ floating around outside; had he actually willingly gone out into the streets, even when the police had warned all of the Narrows to stay inside as best they could?

I shook my head. Then again, Jack wasn't exactly the type to obey anything anyone might have suggested, especially if it were for his own good. He wouldn't have liked being told what to do, and would have purposely gone against what they said, just to spite them. It didn't surprise me at all.

I took my masterkey from my apron pocket and opened the door, welcomed by cold, dead air. Jack had gone out, all right; I'd come to notice that he often left the television on, even if he wasn't watching it, even if he was sitting at the desk with his back to the screen. He probably just liked listening to it, the same way I liked to listen to soap operas playing while I painted my nails, or reread one of my magazines. Sometimes it was just nice to have a little white noise in the background, I could appreciate it fully.

But the television was off, a sure sign that Jack wasn't there. So I went into the room and looked around, noting that the bed needed to be made, but other then that, everything seemed to be in good order. I went around the bed, sliding by the desk, when I looked down at the desktop to get a glimpse at what he had been working on so hard these past two weeks.

Like it had always been, the desk was completely covered with clippings of all sorts, from newspapers and magazines and postcards and posters and the like. A pair of black-handled scissors sat next to the lamp, and close by was the red Sharpie I saw him bring in that one day. Curiously, I looked over the clippings, wondering if he was making a collage or something.

Funny thing was, though, that none of the clippings seemed to have anything in common. He was cutting the pictures of people out and leaving lying around, as though their purpose was to lie in random spots around the desk. I frowned a little, looking a little closer; they weren't pictures of celebrities or politicians. They seemed to be pictures of ordinary citizens...I don't know if they were Gothamites or what, but they were just regular smiling or frowning or pensive or angry people.

Why was Jack cutting out pictures of people? What did he need them for?

I shook my head, deciding it really wasn't any of my business and I shouldn't have been snooping. I was about to go back to the bed when I spotted something else: the little tin of greasepaint sitting underneath the lamp.

Looking over my shoulder and listening for a moment, all I was met with was silence and I knew that I was probably alone on the third floor, so I reached for the tin can and picked it up, running my thumb over the smoothness of the silver plating, and I twisted the top off.

I didn't know what greasepaint was, really. I figured it was just your regular, every day paint, with maybe a different consistency than say, poster paint. If you put it on your face, maybe it would be caky, but then again maybe it wouldn't be. Either way, my curiosity had gotten the best of me.

It was bright cherry red, like really ridiculously red lipstick, and it smelled odd, like a typical paint smell, but a little stronger then other paint smells. Judging by how much was left in the can, Jack had been using it quite a bit. But what exactly what he using it for?

I placed it carefully in the palm of my hand and stuck the end of my pinky finger into the paint, inspecting the paint thoughtfully and marveling at its greasy consistency, spreading vibrant colour over my skin easily. I studied it for a moment, wondering again why on earth he would need it, since I had never seen him wear it and I had never seen it anywhere in the room before.

I shrugged, and setting it back where I found it, I placed the cap on top and then headed into the bathroom to wash my hands.

Met once again with the curtain over the mirror, I turned on the tap and ran my red hand under the water, confused at first because the greasepaint didn't seem to come off very readily. I frowned and rubbed both my hands together, and then feeling somewhat relieved when the paint came away from my skin easily. I scrubbed them both thoroughly until they were relatively clean (albeit my one hand was a little stained, but not noticeably), and I dried them with one of the towels.

And then I noticed that there was another one, another little tin can of greasepaint sitting on the countertop next to the faucet. I looked at it for a moment, wondering how I hadn't seen it when I turned the water on. Picking it up, I inspected it, deciding that it was definitely the same brand as the red paint, but when I twisted off the cap, I was surprised (and yet not so surprised) to find that this can had white greasepaint.

I felt a little bit of childish glee run through me for some strange reason, but the question was immediately on my mind once again. I'd never seen Jack wear either the red or the white greasepaint, and he obviously wasn't an actor who wore it in plays, judging from what he had said previously...so what did he need it for?

I shrugged it off, set down the white greasepaint where I had found it, and went into the room to make the bed.

/

I loitered in the staff room drinking lukewarm coffee and flipping through an old tupperware magazine when Estelle finally showed up; the bell jangled over the front door and I could hear her heavy footsteps, along with her curt, annoyed tone of voice as she complained to Martin about the fact that she had to wear a face mask when she went outside. I checked my watch and swallowed my anger. It was 5:15.

Estelle pushed her way through the door to the break room, her jacket done up all the way to her double chin, and she was carrying two big blue binders which I assumed were the books. She'd probably gone to the bookkeeper; why that kept her busy all damn day, I have no idea. But when he saw me sitting at the table, presumably with a sour expression on my face, she paused and blinked at me as though this were indeed her kitchen and I, some complete stranger, had taken up a seat at the table and welcomed myself to a cup of coffee.

Her annoyance was not hindered by my presence; frowning at me, she shrugged her big shoulders. "What are you doing down here? Aren't you done?"

I sat back and crossed my arms, trying to keep my cool. "You asked me to clean 301, but I can't get into it. It's still locked."

Estelle blinked in confusion for a moment, until an exhausted realization glinted in her dull eyes for a moment. Her face fell with indifference. "Oh," she said simply, and then put the binders down harshly on the table, reeling back up to unbutton and peel her jacket. "But the rest of the third floor is done?"

Why yes, the rest of the third floor was done; it had been done by 4:13, which was about the time I had come back downstairs to ask Martin yet again if Estelle had shown up, and when I decided to wait for her, I had seen both Polly and Lois come and put on their jackets, collect their purses, slip on their face masks, and leave for the night. There was nothing I hated worse than wasting time.

I nodded tensely. "It is."

Estelle hung up her jacket. "Well good, that way 301 shouldn't take you too long." She then dipped one of her huge hands into the front pocket of her apron and rummaged for a moment, ignoring my dark eyes, and when she finally produced them, she presented them to me, motioning for me to take them.

There was nothing; no apology for completely forgetting that she was going to open 301 in the morning, or for making me wait around so long. Nothing at all.

I took in a deep breath, once again swallowing my anger. For a moment I wondered if she had done this on purpose; perhaps _this _was the punishment for the Cuban cigar freak-out on Friday. Perhaps, instead on lecturing me about something so fucking trivial, she decided just to play with me a little bit, test me a little, see how far she could go before my buttons were pushed.

Well, two could play at that game. Studying the keys for a moment, and then looking up into her expectant gaze, I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment. "Could I possibly do it first thing in the morning? It's already dark out, and I don't want to leave too late."

It was the absolute truth; I did _not _want to get caught making the trip home any later than I possibly had to. The Narrows were dangerous enough before the fear gas in the air and the Arkham patients running loose. Even if the Batman was lurking around these rooftops, keeping an eye out for trouble and saving the damsels in distress, I didn't even want to take the risk. But of course, when you speak the absolute truth, you really shouldn't say it in such a teeth-gritting tone of voice that might make someone want to smack you, because it sounds less sincere, doesn't it?

Well, Estelle glowered at me so darkly in that split second that immediately I was sorry I had said anything at all.

"I would really rather you got it done _tonight_," Estelle said sharply and dangerously, and dropped the keys on the table where they landed with a clang, making me jump a little. I stared down at them in pure hatred, and pressed my eyes closed for a moment, taking in a breath and holding it. As much as I wanted to take them and throw them back at her, Estelle's lumbering figure was bad presence enough already that I looked up at her and nodded without another word.

Estelle huffed angrily and turned around to lumber out of the break room, saying something to Martin that I couldn't quite make out, before making her way into the inner sanctums of the hotel.

I sat there for another few minutes telling myself to calm down and be cool, to get 301 clean and over with fast so that I could make my hasty way back home. I tried to take my mind away from it by calculating whether or not I had enough cash on me in my wallet to take a taxi back to my apartment, but the hell of it was that taxis were hard to come by in the Narrows in the evening. I remembered suddenly the butcher knife that I had stashed in my purse, and thought that if anyone really did try and pull something funny, when I was getting off the train or something, well a knife was better than nothing, right?

Sucking in a deep breath, and letting it out in a giant sigh, I took the keys off the table and went back up to the third floor.

**/**

Luckily, with 301 being ransacked of its appliances, there wasn't very much to clean, really. There was minimal dusting or vacuuming or washing of any kind. I changed the bed sheets slowly and quietly, and restocked the bathroom with clean bath towels and washcloths and bars of soap. By the time I had finished absolutely everything, it was 6:35, and very dark outside, and I was absolutely miserable.

When I closed the door to 301, I immediately knew that this had been my punishment for the Cuban cigar goon. It seemed so typical of Estelle all of a sudden; she knew just as well as I did that if the guy didn't want the cigar thrown out, he shouldn't have left it in the ashtray, there was no way that I was at fault there, no matter how expensive the cigar. But the asshole had been unpleasant enough, and I'm sure his conversation with Estelle had been just as unpleasant. According to her logic, somebody had to pay for that. Might as well have been me.

I was halfway down the hall towards the maintenance closet, with dirty sheets gathered in my arms, blinking away misery and staring down at the carpet, when all of a sudden I heard a voice shouting out behind me. "_Hey! Hey sweetheart! Hey!" _Shaking my head, and wondering how I hadn't even heard it to begin with, I turned around and looked down the hallway, frowning.

A man stood inside the door to 306, far enough away from me that I couldn't really see his face, but not too far away that I could immediately see that he was a Falcone goon. The jet black hair greased up hairdo is always a dead giveaway. I paused and stared at him in confusion; when had 306 been rented out?

He held up his arms all of a sudden, as if to say _what the fuck. _"I'm talkin' to you down here, you ignore all yer guests? Huh?"

Feeling my face flush with embarrassment, I hurried down the hall towards him, clutching the sheets in my arms so they wouldn't go flying about, and as I approached the goon I was rather taken aback by his attire. He was dressed only in a white wife beater, striped blue and white boxer shorts, and black socks. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck and barely met the curly black chest hair protruding from the neckline of the wife beater. He was a Falcone goon, no doubt about it; he had puffy cheeks and a profound forehead, and overall looked quite shifty. When I got up close to him, he was shrugging his shoulders with an appalled look on his face.

I cleared my throat, shifting from foot to foot when I came to stand before him. "I'm sorry, sir." I said in gentle apology, figuring that letting my misery take over my mood would certainly be the final thing to ensure my dismissal from the hotel.

"Yeah, I hope yer sorry," the goon said, scoffing a little in his throat and waving his arms around, as though conducting a painfully sarcastic orchestra. "I pay $89 for a shit hotel room, the least I can expect is decent housekeepin', ya know what I'm sayin'?"

I clenched my fingers in the folds of the cold sheets, desperately trying not to let the anger appear on my face. I cleared my throat. "I'm very sorry, sir. What can I do for you?"

The goon threw me an unimpressed look and scratched his hairy arm. "Well first you can get an ashtray for my lady friend." He thumbed behind him into the room, and that was when I noticed suddenly that there was a woman in 306 behind him, constantly moving in and out of the bathroom. I didn't get a very good look at her, but the flashes of what looked like bleached blonde hair and red pleather instantly screamed _whore. _

Clearing his throat, the goon pulled my attention back to him. "Youse guys say smoke in the room, but no ashtrays?" His voice peaked for a moment, as though he couldn't believe the stupidity, and once again he held out his hands as saying _what the fuck._

I nodded eagerly, desperate to get him whatever he wanted just to make him happy, shut him up, and be on my way. "I'll get one right away, sir. Is there anything else you'd like?"

"Uh, yeah!" The goon said, and shifted his weight around on his two feet and though he were getting a little worked up, like bitching out the maid was pretty damn entertaining but he was holding back his glee. There was a glint in his dark eyes that told me the son of a bitch was enjoying it more than he should have been. "Don't you put any shampoo in here? $89 for a room and no shampoo, what kinda hospitality is that?"

Once again I nodded, and eased even a tiny little smile, just so he wouldn't tip over the edge and go nuts. "I'll get it for you right away, sir."

I turned then and walked quickly down the hall, but not far enough out of earshot that I couldn't hear the goon shouting to me, "My lady friend likes her hair clean and smellin' like flowers, ya know!"

In the sudden safety and darkness of the maintenance closet, I threw down the sheets onto the floor in complete disgust and marched over to the cupboard where we kept the complimentary items for the rooms. Throwing open the door, I grit my teeth and muttered _fucker _and _prick _under my breath as I gathered a few bottles of shampoo, just so he couldn't bitch at me or worse, complain to Estelle in the morning, and then picked up the ashtray. Throwing the cupboard door closed, I suddenly took a moment and urged myself to calm down. On the verge of furious tears, I dipped at the waist and told myself to calm down, just _calm down. _The sooner this asshole got his precious items of hygiene that I for one was flabbergasted he even knew existed, the sooner I could make my way home on the dangerous route through the Narrows and be snuggled up safe and sound in bed, with all the locks thrown on the door, with vodka in my system, with Henry cuddled up in my arms, with the sound of the rain making me fall asleep.

Standing up straight and composing myself, I left the maintenance closet and headed down the hallway towards 306. The goon was lingering around in the doorway, probably ready to lecture me some more, but I just stood up straight and walked towards him with confidence, confidence that I could get him whatever he needed without having to punch him out.

He had this smug smirk on his face when I got close enough to him, and by then it was _really _hard _not _to punch his stupid face right in, but I pulled it off, stepping up to him gracefully and holding out the ashtray and the shampoo bottles he wanted, and smiling just the slightest. "Here you are, sir. Sorry about the inconvenience."

The goon took them from me gingerly. "Well it's about time," he muttered unhappily, and juggled them around, until the whore appeared at the door behind him, and I got a good look at her. I'd seen her before, down on the corner, definitely; she was a young but very rough-looking chain smoker, probably a drug addict, judging by how scary skinny she was and the hollowness of her cheekbones, and the dark circles that lined her eyes. She wore heavy makeup and long fake eyelashes over dead gray eyes. She had a cigarette dangling on her lip that was already coated in cheap pink lipstick when she took the ashtray from the goon without looking at him, and then the shampoo bottles after glancing narrowly and disapprovingly in my direction. Disappearing from view and retreating back into the room, I listened as the shower in the bathroom started up, and the door closed.

I inched back a little, but obviously the goon wasn't quite finished with me. He turned back towards me and frowned. "Who's heard of a hotel that don't give out free shampoo? $89 for a room, I think that calls for a little service, don't ya think?"

I found myself frowning at him, first for his comment, but then after realizing that his gaze was suddenly on my chest. I wanted to laugh at him; first he berated me for not having the room up to his grand expectations, next he was checking me out? I crossed my arms to get him to stop, but I couldn't help the frown that felt heavy on my face. He looked back up at me, seemingly unimpressed. "Anything else I can do for you?" I asked cooly.

He took a step back and leaned his weight onto one foot, and then _very _obviously gave me a once over, and I nearly scoffed in his face and stormed off down the hall in the other direction. I probably would have if he hadn't shrugged and then gave me a wolfish smile. "Yeah, uh...listen..." he looked down at the carpet, wiped his nose, and then looked up at me once again, still smiling. "Why don't you join us inside for a drink, since I've been such a prick and all."

Almost immediately as he said it, a red flag went off in the back of my head. I felt the frown melt from my face, and the anger I was feeling was slowly being replaced with apprehension. I uncrossed my arms slowly and regarded him seriously, but he wasn't letting up. He continued to leer at me, his eyes clouding over with something I couldn't quite identify, but something I definitely didn't like. Part of me thought that maybe he was only trying to be polite, and really make some sort of gesture of apology for being such an asshole, but my mind was telling me to _move_ along_._

I took a step back, rose one hand, and shook my head. "No thanks, that's not necessary."

The goon took a step towards me, and the apprehension I was feeling was very quickly turning into panic. He nodded his head towards the door, and started to grin very deviously. "Well then why don't you just come inside...we'll make it worth your while."

I took another step back, my entire body flooding with panic, and I swallowed as he took another step towards me. Once again, I shook my head. "No, _thank you." _

Suddenly his eyes flared with anger, and his grin was gone, replaced by an angry pout, like that of a child who doesn't get what he wants and is about to throw a tantrum. Before I could turn and take off down the hall, his hand lashed out at me and grabbed my elbow, making me gasp and instinctively try and pull away. His fingers bit into my skin like claws and I winced at the harshness of it. Breathing in frightened little gasps of fear I try to pry his fingers off me, but he simply pulled me towards him and my feet in their little tennis shoes slid right across the carpet. I was suddenly right up flush against his body and looking up at him I suddenly realized that although he wasn't much taller than me, he wasn't lithe in form, and his arms were big.

Looking down at me, his eyes glimmered once again with malicious intent and he grinned. "C'mon, babe, it'll be fun, I _promise _it'll be fun."

Trying to wrench my arm out of his grasp, I was on the verge of tears when all of a sudden he stepped back towards the door, bringing me with him, and he was nearly inside the door before my voice broke free from my dry, scratchy throat.

"Let me _go!_" I shrieked, although not nearly loud enough that someone might be able to hear me. I pounded my fist down on the wrist of the arm that gripped me but he simply laughed as though such an effort to escape him was completely futile. Tears were threatening to spill and I was shaking completely in fear as I shrieked out once again. "_Let me go! Let me __**go!**_**"**

And then, suddenly, all was silent, following the opening, and the slamming, of a nearby door.

The goon stopped pulling me as we both listened to heavy, solid footsteps as they made their way down the hall towards us, becoming louder and louder like thunder with every step.

We both looked simultaneously down the hall to where they were coming from, and I very nearly let out a gasp of relief, if only I hadn't seen the malevolent glare in his eyes.

Jack.

**/**

* * *

**XD**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Holy crap you guys...here I had published chapter eleven thinking I was gonna get hate mail for the way I left it; I'm still reeling in shock. Your feedback, not to mention the amount of feedback, has been so incredible, that it has given me a dedication to Housekeeping that I consider to be the strongest support I have ever had or given to any creative writing project. Thank you all so very, very much **Jordan Goombette, PurgatoryNymphe, KatieMarrie, SombodyStandingThere, corbsxx, trickstersink, Crazycoolname, Gir2345, TheTalkingCupcake, Kyrie Twilight, psychadelicious, whataFrenzy, AmazonaV, ThermodynamicMiracle, linalove, Joker molester here, Lorna Roxen, KrysOfSorrow, KorroksApostle, BloodyRose, Draven98, Casey, Cleonie Quinn, SleepyHeather, HeldAtRansom, ujemaima, Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, scarlett, shamenteen, Comidia Del Arte, mehar23mia, TinkerbellxO, elfenwindakachrno, pourquoibella, anna, Airelle, Lady Liesel, CC, Bubbles of Ebil, crazyinabottle, ChristianBale Girl 2010, Feels-Like-Paradise, To Be Half Of A Whole, HoistTheColours, Moz, Laurenmlc, Miss Tie, Darkendays, N, ra1nf1re **and **Aghanashini. **

In July, I had an incredible vacation in London, England. If there are any Londoners reading, know you live in one amazing city. Listening to the Batman soundtracks while walking along the Thames is nothing short of totally epic. Have you all seen the new teaser for The Dark Knight Rises? Soooo excited!

Now, for the one you've all been waiting for.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twelve**

**/**

For a brief, blessed moment, I felt an incredible rush of relief go through my entire system, and I smiled ecstatically for only a second before the gravity of the situation came rushing back to me when the goon squeezed my arm, possibly because he too was considering exactly what was going on at that very moment. Nevertheless, I winced, and looked to Jack with pleading eyes; surely he'd see how uncomfortable I was. Surely he'd do something, surely he wouldn't leave me at the mercy of this goon. But the more I looked at him, begging him to do something, the quicker I realized that Jack wasn't looking at me at all; he was looking at the goon, but I figured he was doing that to intimidate him, and it was working.

With every step Jack took towards us, with his dark eyes looking nothing short of deeply, deeply unimpressed, the goon became more and more agitated; I could sense his discomfort as he shifted his feet, obviously not feeling very grounded what with being slowly approached by this tall, toned, hulking pissed-off looking man with the scariest-looking scars on his face. As he advanced, I noticed how Jack's hands flexed and then curled into fists, and he smacked his lips, the way he casually would when I was cleaning his room, but the closer he came, the blacker his eyes, and slowly I felt less at ease of his sudden appearance, and more worried about what he was actually going to do.

And he still wouldn't look at me.

I tried to pull my arm out of the goon's grip, a mixed sound of frustration and fear leaving my throat, one so that the goon would simply let go of me, and two so that I could distance myself from whatever was about to happen. The goon simply growled low in his throat and squeezed my arm, dirtied fingernails biting into my skin, almost as if in warning, once again causing me to wince, and without looking at me he snarled under his breath. "You ain't goin' nowhere."

The hallway was eerily silent, save for the hard sound of Jack's footsteps on the crappy carpeting, and the wet, sloppy sounds that came from Jack chewing on the insides of his scars. It sent shivers up my spine, making goosebumps pan over my forearms. As he slowly approached I took in his appearance all at once: simple black T-shirt, dirty jeans, unremarkable shoes, moderately greasy-looking curls...he walked with his shoulders almost right up to his ears, hunched, like he was trying to make himself look bigger, but I knew he wasn't doing that on purpose. I'd noticed that that was just how he walked, and perhaps that's why he did it: he knew it scared people.

My lips trembled as he came towards us. I had the strongest urge to say his name, draw his attention to me, make him _look _at me. He wouldn't look at me and it felt like maybe he wasn't seeing me at all, he wasn't seeing the _situation_. If only he would look at me, he would be able to see my eyes, the desperation and the panic that I'm sure I was emanating, the tears that were threatening to spill, the _fear _that was so clearly displayed on my face. The need to say his name and the need to reach forward and touch him, touch him and not have him wave me off, like this had nothing to do with me whatsoever, like this was between _him _and the _goon _and the maid who was in danger of being raped had no part in this at all.

I didn't need him to take my hand and throw me behind him, grow claws and promise the goon he'd pay for touching me...I just needed him to _**look**__ at me_.

"What the fuck d'you want?" The goon spat suddenly, breaking the silence, drawing my attention up to his face. His brow was furred with anger but I could see the apprehension in his dark eyes and the way the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. He was scared of Jack, anyone could see that. Anxiously I turned to look to Jack, who's entire face was dark with displeasure.

He stopped within an arms reach of us; his shoulders were hunched, and his long, toned arms hung at his sides limply, but he was still flexing and clenching his hands, as if longing to wring a neck. I swallowed tightly and looked up to his face, as he was still noisily sucking at the insides of his cheeks, staring down the goon with his unblinking black glower.

Ceasing entirely with the cheek-sucking, Jack regarded the goon darkly and said, quite simply, in a very unimpressed tone of voice: "I'm _trying _to get some _sleep._"

I gaped at him. I could have laughed and cried and screamed all at once; was that all he was going to say? Without a moment's hesitation of both utter panic and blatant stupidity, I reached forward with my free arm, fingers aching to brush the skin of his arm. "Jack-"

With another snarl in his throat, the goon wrenched me back, and I let out a cry of disdain as I stumbled back and looked to Jack with tears blurring my vision. _He will help me_, I told myself secretly, over and over. _He _will_ help me._

Jack's eyes flickered to me and I closed my eyes with relief. Opening them and letting a tear roll down my cheek, I saw Jack's gaze was still on me, unchanged; there wasn't a glow of recognition in his eyes, like suddenly he realized the damsel in distress was me and not just some whore from the corner. No, there was just an emotionless stare, as though he'd never seen me before but realized the danger I was in and was contemplating on whether or not to cut me a break. It filled me with hope and broke my heart at the same time.

The goon scoffed loudly, and pointed his golden-ringed finger at Jack. "Fuck you, ass_hole_, this ain't none of yer damn business!"

Jack's eyes broke from me and returned to the goon, and his forehead wrinkled considerably as he scowled, making his eyes look darker and his scars scarier. "You're disrupting my peace," Jack muttered in that low, dangerous voice that I had become all too familiar with in the first few days of our acquaintance. "And _that_ sure ismy business."

Above me, the goon chuckled in disbelief, as though he couldn't believe that Jack had the gall to start something with him. But once again, studying his face, I could see that hidden layer of apprehension, the reluctance to start something he might eventually come to regret starting. But as soon as the chuckling started, it was replaced by another snarl of contempt and disbelief. Pulling me back slightly with the force in his one hand, the goon stepped forward to initiate the showdown, puffing up his chest.

"You want this to get _ugly, __**asshole?**_" The goon's voice rose to a shout, and for a fleeting moment of sheer hope I thought that maybe, _maybe _Martin would hear him downstairs and come running to see what the fuss was about. It wasn't likely, since we were on the third floor, but at that point I was willing to hope anything would happen, anything to get me out of this mess in one piece.

The goon walked right up to Jack and they were very nearly nose to nose, obviously getting in each other's faces to rectify dominance. Jack had nothing on the goon's mass, which alarmed me for a moment, once I could compare them.

Once again I swallowed tightly, watching Jack's face. He never backed down, never once showed a sign that he would submit. His eyes were black and deep and murderous.

Puffing himself up, the goon starting shouting again, right in Jack's unrelenting face; I could see the spittle flying as his voice thundered all around us. "I'll make this _real _ugly if it'll please ya, mother_fucker_!"

What happened next happened so quickly that to this day, I still don't quite recall seeing everything clearly.

Jack moved like the speed of light, one hand grabbing the goon's stained wife beater and twisting it within the curls of his fingers very, very tightly, and with a strength I didn't know Jack possessed, he pushed the goon back against the doorframe, the sheer force of the push against the goon's back enough to make the cheap wood crack under the impact. The goon let out a surprised sound of shock and anger, and in his surprise, released my arm.

I jumped back, taking in the scene while cradling my arm close to my chest to soothe away the pain and the redness, and that was when Jack pulled the knife.

It was a small blade, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. At first glance I was positive it was a carrot peeler, but from the way it glinted in the overhead light, I could see that it was deathly sharp, and protruding from Jack's clenched fist was a thick, black handle. That was no carrot peeler. The goon, who's anger was suddenly replaced with wide-eyed fear, stared at the blade as though it too were something he'd never seen before.

"_Yeaahhhhhhhh_..." Jack drawled, in a startling high-pitched voice, almost laden with pleasure, as though he were trying to pick up a woman: it was a voice laced with...excitement. "Let's make this _**real ugly**_."

I stared, utterly amazed and scared shitless, as Jack rose the blade to the goon's face, keeping it just from touching his right cheek. The goon's frightened eyes following it methodically, and his chest was heaving with heavy breath.

Looking to Jack, he was completely unmoved, as though threatening people with knives was something he did everyday. His facial expression remained unchanged, his eyes were still dark and glowering but otherwise unfazed. He was completely cool, vanilla, neutral. The only thing that had changed, really, was the veins protruding from the skin on his arm as he clenched the goon's wife beater.

I could feel my breath leaving my lips in gasps as I stared. I knew I should have gone running down the hall screaming for help, but I simply couldn't pull away, and I couldn't say anything. It was like I wasn't there at all, like I was a ghost haunting the hotel and watching this conflict that had suddenly sprouted in the hallway.

Jack's tongue lashed out against his scars and the goon's eyes widened considerably, as though it were clear that after Jack killed him, he was going to eat him.

Then I gasped loudly. Was Jack going to _kill _him?

"Why don't we dance, hmm?" Jack asked in a merry little sing-song voice, the high-pitched voice that I was somewhat used to, and that seemed to do it for the goon.

In a single act of courage, the goon pushed Jack away from him, and for some strange reason, I'll never understand, Jack actually let go of the wife beater. Was he caught off guard, maybe? I was about to scream because I was sure the goon was going to pull a gun on Jack or something.

But, surprisingly, the goon held his hands up where we could both see them, and his face pulled into a deep frown, as though he had obviously trespassed on forbidden ground and knew it. Shaking his head slowly, his nose curled and he lurched forward. "You're _fucking __**crazy!**_"

Jack breathed in a sharp breath and made a very displeased sound in his throat, which made me take a tentative step backwards, away from them. His lips pulling into a very tight sneer, Jack rose the blade as if in warning. "No I'm _not. _I'm no_t._"

It's almost as if the words had come from the deepest depths of Jack's body, mixed with all the hate and anger he could possibly muster. He emphasized the T which pulled at my heart for a moment; suddenly I knew he had been called that countless times before.

Slowly, looking behind him, the goon retreated inside the doorway of his room; the bathroom door was still closed. Suddenly I wondered if the whore in the bathroom was aware of anything that was happening in the hallway right at that moment.

The goon was deeply shook up. He reached for the door and halfway hid behind it; there was no more anger in his face, just deep, deep fear.

For one fleeting last moment of maintaining some dignity in the middle of the fray, the goon shook his head once more. "Fuck you, man, you're _crazy!_"

And then he slammed the door the hardest he could, and then came the twisting and jangling of the knob that I knew to be the throwing of the lock. Then all was silent.

I looked over at Jack, and slowly the arm wielding the little blade came down to rest at his side, as though wrought with disappointment. After a moment of just staring at the door, as though waiting for the goon to emerge with a weapon of his own, Jack seemed to come to the conclusion that the goon didn't want to take part in this fight anymore and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. "What, can't come out to play after all?"

Tutting, and pulling his lips into yet another displeased frown, Jack turned away from the door, squaring his shoulders and looking deeply disappointed, like a kid who's friend wasn't allowed to come outside.

His eyes settled on me.

I was a deer in the headlights. I don't think I even took the time to breathe while it all happened. My hands were clutched in the front folds of my uniform, and while I became conscious of it, my arms didn't seemed to want to follow my instructions to let my dress go. I stood rooted to the ground, even when Jack's eyes were on me and I felt like running and screaming in the opposite direction. My eyes flickered from his face down to the little blade he was still holding in his hand. While I was confidant he wouldn't turn the knife on me, shit, I hadn't exactly been sure he wasn't going to kill the goon just then.

Looking back up at Jack, I noticed he was sucking at the insides of his cheeks again, and he was regarding me casually, as though nothing had happened at all, like it was any other day of him being the scary guest and me being the maid who cleaned his room.

And then...the most frightening part of the entire encounter happened.

Sucking at his cheeks forgotten, Jack pulled that attractive little smile, the one he was steadily getting used to showing me, the one that made my heart skip a beat because it seemed so _odd_ to see on his ruined lips.

And then, with his free hand, he reached over and cuffed my cheek roughly.

I jumped from the contact, and the next thing I knew he was going down the hall, back towards his room in steady, long strides, the knife in his hand dangling at his side. I stared after him, thinking surely that wasn't it. That wasn't all he was going to do, was it?

I stared at his back, at the back of his curly-haired head and the shoulders hunched up, and the toned arms swaying at his sides. My fingers trembled as they lay curled around the fabric of my uniform, and my lips continued to tremble with utter fear and utter disbelief, as I watched him open the door to 310 and disappear inside, slamming the door behind him.

The hallway had gone silent. All I could hear were the heavy, trembling breaths that I soon realized were my own. Swallowing, I was suddenly distracted by the sound of arguing coming from behind 306; obviously the Falcone goon was relaying everything that had happened to the whore who was preoccupied in the bathroom and hadn't seen or heard a thing.

I took a step back, my eyes on 306, and then drifting down the hallway towards 310. The end of the hall seemed to loom on and on forever, like some sort of nightmarish corridor that one could never reach the end of. I took another step back, and then another...

And then I fled, as fast as my legs could carry me, down the hall towards the stairs.

**/**

I don't remember how I got home that night. It all seemed like such a blur. All I remember was the feeling of Henry's paw tapping against my chin, startling me out of whatever daze I had fallen into. When I snapped out of it, I found that I was sitting on my couch, in front of the TV, with my jacket on, clinging my purse in both hands, and Henry was sitting beside me, giving me this look as if to say _what the hell is wrong with you?_

When I got up I threw the locks on the door and went to the kitchen and downed a substantial amount of vodka straight from the bottle, as much as I could until my stomach gave an unexpected lurch of warning and I forced myself to stop, gasping as I felt the burn on my throat slide into my empty stomach like liquid fire. Putting the bottle down on the counter, I closed my eyes and dropped down to my knees, soothing the ache in my stomach.

When I opened my eyes, they were blurred with tears, and angrily I wiped them away with the sleeve of my coat, and then chided myself for not taking off my coat so I strode into the living room and tore it off, all but throwing it on the coat hanger by the door. When I turned to go back into the living room, I kicked the armchair so hard that I shrieked with pain, sure that the kick had split one of my toenails, and Henry went galloping off into the bedroom, where I probably wouldn't see him for the rest of the night.

I collapsed down onto the floor, grasping one of the arms of the armchair as I tumbled, like a rag doll, and sat there sobbing like a baby.

What the hell was with me? What was wrong? It was so hard to identify exactly what was so upsetting...or what was more upsetting, rather. The fact that at that very moment, I could have been in 306, recovering from rape...or whatever the hell the goon was going to do to me, was enough to make my stomach give a serious lurch. But even more upsetting was the thought that Jack had pulled a knife on him...pulled a knife on him and threatened him. And what was worse, there was no doubt in my mind that Jack would have done something really, really horrible if the goon hadn't submitted and escaped into 306.

Breathing hard, the tears finally settling, I rubbed my face with my hands. What to do, what to _do_? Should I go to Estelle and tell her what happened? No, that didn't seem like the best idea...if she didn't want to report a whole stash of child porn being found in one of the rooms, what were the chances that she's report an _almost _fight between two questionable characters? Jack would never admit to anything, I knew that immediately. And the goon...well, hopefully he'd be gone in the morning.

But I had to tell _someone, _didn't I? This wasn't the type of thing you just swallowed and smiled and kept your chin up and kept on trucking, no...not when someone was at risk of being _raped_. Not when someone was at risk of being _stabbed_. But who was there to tell, and who would listen? Telling anyone that a Falcone goon grabbed me and tried to pull me into his room would probably been met with a _What'd you expect? He's a Falcone, what're you doing putting yourself in a situation like that?_ And telling anyone, especially in the hotel, that Jack had come along, well...

As I settled into a strange calm, I realized that there really wasn't anyone I could tell. There wasn't really anything I could do. The thought crossed my mind about calling in an anonymous tip to the police, like Polly did, but again Jack would never admit to anything and would be far from cooperative...and the goon, well...the police had no real jurisdiction over the Falcone goons, even with Falcone going nuts in the nuthouse.

I sighed heavily. It was too bad the Batman didn't have a hotline.

Feeling utterly alone and defeated and vulnerable and scared, I pulled myself up onto my feet and shuffled slowly into the bedroom, hugging myself so I wouldn't cry anymore. I sat down on my bed and kicked off my shoes, sniffing just a little, and when I looked at my bedside table, I saw the telephone sitting there so neatly and perfectly.

I would have given anything to call my parents, call them and just talk to them, just hear their voices...but I knew I shouldn't. It was late, and probably later in Metropolis by about an hour or two. They'd probably be in bed. No, it wasn't the time to call them, and even if I did, what would I say to them? Recount everything that had happened? No, it'd just make me feel like a baby needing comforting for something that happened in which nothing actually _did_ happen.

I was home, and yes I was shaken, but I was in one piece. I was fine.

Letting out another deep sigh of sadness and loneliness and fear and a whole whirlwind of other strange emotions, I flopped over onto my side and pulled the covers up to my chin, sniffing into my pillow until, somehow, I fell asleep.

**/**

I felt sick stepping through the door to the Palace the next morning, regarding the lobby and the desk and Martin as if they were all against me, plotting my demise, even when Martin looked up and smiled cheerfully and waved me a good morning. The girls weren't in the break room, luckily, so I was able to hang up my coat and put away my lunch in peace without being accosted with questions about the Batman or about anything that had happened in Gotham recently.

Getting ready to come to work that morning, I was both angry and ashamed to see big purple marks the shape of fat Falcone fingers marring the white skin of my bony arm, and immediately I slathered my cheap foundation makeup all over my arm to try and make it go away. It looked awful, like I dipped half my arm in a bucket of orange paint or something, so I found my gray cardigan and pulled it on, knowing Estelle would probably be pissed. It was a bad start to what was most certainly going to be a very bad day.

I trudged miserably up the stairs to the third floor, where to my immediate surprise I saw that room 301 was open and there were a bunch of boxes sitting outside the door. As I opened the door to the maintenance closet, I assumed that they were the new appliances come to replace the stolen ones. It looked as though someone else had taken the liberty of unpacking the appliances and putting them in the room, saving me from the job, and I was pretty grateful. I was in such a filthy mood that not even the stitched scowl on the Batman doll's face could lift my spirits.

As I loaded up my cart with everything I needed until lunchtime, I pushed the cart out of the maintenance closet and down the hall. Estelle was standing outside 301, with her fists on her sides, supervising some guy in a uniform was taking the boxes into the room. As I came down the hallway, her gazed transfixed on me and she crossed her meaty arms over her chest.

I slowed as I approached her, and nodded in greeting. "Morning, Estelle."

"Morning, Jane." She replied in an indifferent tone, and then nodded towards 301. "Glad to see you got 301 cleaned last night. Looks good."

I blinked at her and felt my features freezing in a frown. I honestly couldn't tell if that was an insult or a compliment. Somehow I had a feeling it was a little of both, but I didn't have the energy or frame of mind to argue, or instigate anything. I merely smiled in return. "Thanks."

She nodded, and then I was convinced that she meant it to be a compliment, and not some snarky comment. "That'll mean one less room for you today, but tomorrow I want you to come in and dust everything."

I nodded. That seemed reasonable, and it was nice knowing that I had one less room to worry about for the day. "Yeah, for sure."

I took her nodding and silence as a cue for me to leave and begin my rounds, but as I slowly began to push the cart, Estelle's eyes suddenly snapped to the Batman doll, sitting snuggly where I used the put the shampoo bottles. Without warning, she reached over and snatched it out of its spot, making me pause rather abruptly.

Estelle looked at the doll as though it were the ugliest thing she'd ever set eyes on, and the fact that she was tossing it between her hands was equally disturbing. She looked at me with a disapproving eye. "Something you found in one of the rooms?"

I opened my mouth to tell her I'd bought it, but the cold look in her eyes shut me up and made me reconsider. Technically I really wasn't supposed to have anything personal on me while I was cleaning, in cause it got stolen, or one of the guests saw it. Estelle claimed that it was unprofessional for maids to keep personal knickknacks around when cleaning the rooms.

"Uh..." I reached behind me to scratch my hair. "Yeah, someone must have left him behind."

"Mmhmm," Estelle mumbled in her throat, and dropped the doll unceremoniously back where she'd picked him up, and then looked back at me, frowning. "Well make sure you dispose of it soon, the last thing we need is a guest exploding because he thinks you support what the Batman's doing. This here's a hotel, not the house of congress."

I nearly scoffed right in her big, round face. I highly doubted any guest walking past my cart would see the Batman doll and give a flying _fuck_, forget throwing a political fit about vigilantism over a plush toy. I looked away from her, rolling my eyes, and nodded. "Right, I'll get rid of it."

That was all she was going to say, apparently. She looked away from me and went back to supervising the poor delivery man as I continued down the hall, my fist curling around the handle as I pushed the cart.

I looked at the Batman doll, who seemed distressed, having been thrown on his side, so I leaned forward and set him upwards again, so that his arms were out at the side and his face was all mad and unimpressed and staring at me like I was the one who'd been throwing him around. I smiled just a little. Guess I was taking him home tonight...but at least Henry would be delighted to see him. That cat loves plush toys.

I went through 302, 303, and 304 before lunch; they were empty, but I changed the bedsheets and fluffed the pillows, dusted the appliances and checked the towels in the bathrooms. Business was sure to get super slow when the fear gas went up in the air, but this was getting ridiculous. Each room I cleaned seemed lonelier and emptier than the last, as though they hadn't been used in years, like guest rooms in some gigantic mansion. It was depressing, the way the rooms felt, but then I started to worry that maybe it wasn't the rooms that were getting so drab. Maybe it was me.

At lunchtime, I sat in the break room chewing idly at my tunafish sandwich, staring at the gray paint peeling off the walls, thinking about how awful the fluorescent lights looked in this equally awful-looking pathetic little room they called the break room. It felt so artificial and sterile, like working in a dirty hospital. I don't think I'd ever hated working at the Palace more than at that very moment.

After lunch, I smoothed out my skirt and walked past Martin, who was hunched over a huge crossword puzzle. I contemplated asking him if he'd seen the Falcone goon and the hooker leave, but I realized it wasn't necessary, as I was walking up the stairs. The Falcone goon had only booked the room for one night, that's what they did when they brought hookers. He was probably off in some high-class casino lounge, drinking and smoking and trying to drag waitresses back into his car. I'd never see him ever again, not after what Jack had done, but as I swept my hand over my arm I was suddenly reminded of the mark he'd left on me.

And then of course there was Jack, forget about the goon, the goon was long gone, but Jack was still up there, sleeping or snipping away at magazine pages or watching cooking shows. I'd knock on the door and he'd let me in, and he'd probably ignore me as I made the bed and checked the bathroom, and then he'd grin at me as I left, like we shared a private joke. A telltale, knowing smile, attractive but mischievous, as though he knew that I knew I owed him something for, well...saving me from some unexpected fate, but he wouldn't want anything in return. Maybe he just liked knowing that even though he had the meanest-looking scars on his face, and that people called him a freak, he was the one who'd saved the maid from getting raped; he too could play the hero, if he wanted to.

Cleaning 305 came and went way quicker than I would have liked; I was not looking forward at all to going into 306 and being met with whatever mess the goon and hooker left for me to clean up, especially after what happened last night. I took my time pushing the cart down the hall, staring at 306 with a scowl as though the door was being obnoxiously flirtatious. When I parked the cart outside the door, I sighed angrily as I took the master key from my apron pocket and opened 306's door.

As soon as my fingers touched the door knob, something in the back of my mind screamed at me.

I paused, looking down at the doorknob, and opened the door just a crack. The hallway seemed to go completely silent, there was no noise at all, like I was the only one in the entire building. A chill rolled up my spine suddenly, as a smell wafted through the crack in the door, something strong and vile and disturbingly familiar.

A shuddery gasp fluttered past my lips and all of a sudden I felt ice cold. Taking my hand away from the doorknob I took a step back, staring at the door, and then I swallowed tightly. For a moment it seemed as though the smell had disappeared, but then it wafted through the door once more, stronger, more pungent.

I was all alone in the hallway, the hallway that smelled like mildew, dust-bunnies, that hot smell when the lights got too hot, but not blood. The hallway did not smell like blood.

I looked down the hallway towards the stairwell. There was absolutely no one around; I contemplated running downstairs to get Martin, but for some strange reason, I felt the need to go into 306 by myself, curiosity mixing with horror getting the best of me.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips just gently against the door, and summing up the last bit of courage I had, I pushed on the door, and slowly it creaked open.

The smell hit me in the face like a wave of warm water, tempting my gag reflex, and I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from throwing up. But throwing up, at that point, was the least of my worries.

My eyes immediately went to the carpet. Thin ribbons of red rippled the gray carpet leading right up to the bathroom door. Clenching my uniform in my hands, I stepped forward, into the room, my eyes glued to the carpet, my heart in my throat, my mind an absolute blank. It was as if I were possessed, moving forward not of my own free will. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I should have stopped myself from going further, but I couldn't...somehow, I just couldn't.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked around the corner, at the bed against the wall. There lay the hooker, handcuffed to the bedposts, naked, slashed to ribbons, her feet the only part of her body not soaked in drying blood. The goon lay in a pool of his own blood, naked, on the floor in front of the television.

I heard someone screaming. I slammed myself up against the wall; my chest was heaving, my mouth agape, and someone was screaming, screaming all around me, screaming blue, bloody murder.

**/**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Hey all. So, obviously, I didn't get Housekeeping finished by the end of the summer like I wanted to, but I should be able to finish it by the end of the year, provided the coursework this semester doesn't kill me first. :( Back to school this week, sad because this was such a lovely summer. Hope you're all enjoying being back at school or back to your fall-time routines. Hard to believe in such a few short months it'll be Christmastime again. XS

Anyway, a very special thanks to **Miss Tie, SombodyStandingThere, Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, CC, mehar23mia, whataFrenzy, Comidia Del Arte, linalove, Cleonie Quinn, ujemaima, Joker molester here, Lady Liesel, Feels-Like-Paradise, corbsxx, SwDream, PurgatoryNymphe, elfenwindakachrno, KaiH, crazyinabottle, scarlett, AnitaFajita, JordanGoombette, KorroksApostle, Gir2345, eye of the divine, TinkerbellxO, EmmalineGrey, tomieharley, anonymous, Zetsubel, Lady-Plague-6661, Candy, and psychadelicious, Alicia Ecila, ForgetTheFall, **and **absinth-tein **for your reviews**. **Enjoy the update, guys.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**/**

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Mr. Halterstead's office was boiling hot, for some strange reason, but even then I couldn't help but try to hold my body together, pulling my arms into my chest. I sat in a flimsy chair in front of his desk with my shoulders hunched up, my legs drawn tightly together, and although I tried wringing my hands to keep them from shaking, it didn't seem to work. I felt so strangely exposed, so out in the open for anyone to see, despite the fact that I was sitting alone in a small office. I wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear, sink into the walls and become part of the wallpaper, melt until I was nothing but another unknown stain on the carpet, looking up at people coming and going. I wanted to be anywhere, and anyone, but where I was and who I was at that moment.

I would never get the picture out of my head, I knew that now. I would forever be haunted by the image of the bodies. If I dared to close my eyes, I would be back in room 306, standing at the foot of the bed, taking in the scene all over again. I could smell the room, the smell of blood mixed with the mildew in the air, and how the late afternoon light came in only made it smell hot, putrid...worse.

I could see the hooker lying on the bed, naked, handcuffed to the posts where her wrists were torn and bloody, her big fake nails covered in blood. I could see her hair, matted and tangled and drenched in blood. A blonde wig lied abandoned on the carpet, tossed aside to soak up a puddle of blood. Who knew what her real hair colour was at that point. Her throat was slashed, and in what I can only imagine to be her final moments, spent in horror and agony, her mouth hung open as if to cry out or scream or simply moan in agony. Her eyes, though rolled to the back of her head, were wide open; dreadful milky white pools staring up at the ceiling as if searching for a saviour. The killer left no piece of her body untouched; her chest, her stomach, her legs...she had been ripped to ribbons, like a pig to be gutted. The only things the killer didn't touch was the little gold hoop that pierced her left nipple, and her feet...her feet were clean. Her toenails were painted pussycat pink, fresh, as though she'd just had them done that day.

Part of me wondered...had she been handcuffed before the killer came into the room? Was she forced to lie there, trapped, watching the killer as he or she killed the goon and then advanced upon her? Had she struggled, screamed for mercy, cried?

And then there was the goon...lying in a pool of his own blood in front of the television. His fleshy back was slashed in perfect lines, as though he had been whipped instead of cut, and his right arm flailed out in front of him, as though reaching for something, and his left arm drawn in to his side, as if to aid one of the slashes. His fingers were still adorned with gold rings and a gold watch. His head was turned to one side, facing the door, his eyes wide and white, his nose in the carpet, his sickly coloured tongue lolled out of his mouth. The carpet he lied on was basically a mat of drying blood.

Had there been a struggle? I hadn't recalled seeing any of the furniture knocked down, or the door busted in. Had the goon been killed first? Perhaps the killer made him watch as the poor, hopeless hooker was shred to pieces. Perhaps they were in on it together, some sick pair indulging some midnight slash fantasy -

I leaned forward, gagging...but nothing came out.

I wanted to cry...but for some reason, crying seemed forbidden. It seemed eerily unacceptable, at that moment. Two people were dead, violently dead, and I had been the one to find their grisly remains, but it didn't seem appropriate to cry. Perhaps the dead didn't care about empathy.

Someone came in the office behind me, moving in slow strides on the carpet, and I drew myself together as if preparing for a blow to the back of the head. I fought the urge to leap to my feet and run screaming out of the room. I wanted to clench my eyes closed so I wouldn't have to look at the intruder. I just wanted to be left alone.

I felt the slightest brush of fingertips on my shoulder, and I flinched involuntarily. "Jane?"

Swallowing, I turned to my right side and watched as Mr. Halterstead knelt down beside me, his hard, lined face wrought with concern, and his blue eyes big and almost protective. This was the second time I had met him, and he was still the same strange thin man with a bald head, but the way he rested his hand so gently on my shoulder, he almost reminded me of my father.

He looked up at me, his face unreadable, and he sighed as though trying to decide how to tell me something. "There's an officer here, he wants to talk to you about the murders, ask you some questions...do you think you feel up to that?"

Mr. Halterstead had a deep, rough voice, the kind of voice you expect to hear narrating an old black and white detective movie, but there was kindness in his voice as well, a touch of real concern, and somehow I didn't feel it was right to tell him I just wanted to be by myself.

But, truth be told, I didn't want to be by myself. Not really.

I nodded. "Y-Yeah, I guess..."

Mr. Halterstead nodded, a sympathetic smiling tugging at the corners of his hard mouth, and he patted my shoulder consolingly. "If you need anything, I'll be right outside the door, okay?"

Swallowing tears, I nodded again. "Okay."

Mr. Halterstead got up and sauntered out of the room, slowly, and I almost wanted to turn and watch him go. Talk about getting the wrong impression of someone; I only met him once, briefly, and ever since Estelle always set him up to be the meanest, fiercest man who never wanted to give refunds and hated receiving complaints. It made me wonder what else Estelle poisoned around the hotel.

I could hear him talk to someone just outside the door, someone who I presumed to be the officer coming to talk to me about the discovery. I tried to straighten myself up, but I just ended up fidgeting worse then before. My legs were starting to shake, and even though I willed myself to just stay calm, it seemed to be, at that point, impossible.

Someone came into the office, someone different from Mr. Halterstead, I could tell from the footsteps. These footsteps sounded harder, more definite, more sure of themselves. I clenched my hands into fists to keep from shaking and prepared myself for the interrogation.

The man walked around me, and like Mr. Halterstead, he bent down on one knee so that he was looking up at me. "Hi Jane. I'm Lieutenant Gordon with the Gotham City Police Department."

The moment I set eyes on him, I knew he was someone I could trust with my life. Not that my fabulous instincts have prevailed in the past, but for some reason I just sensed that he was someone truly trustworthy. His face, older and lined with time, was kindly and empathetic, and somehow his mustache (and I _hate _mustaches on men), only amplified this trustworthiness I felt about him. His blue eyes were sad, as though they had seen more then their fair share of horrors, more than a lifetime of wicked things. In that moment, as he looked up at me, he gave me a sad smile, as though he understood my obvious distress.

"Mr. Halterstead tells me you were the one who found the bodies." Lieutenant Gordon said slowly and carefully, his blue eyes never leaving mine.

I noticed that he wasn't wearing a police officer uniform, and for some reason that threw me right off. I frowned, and then I closed my eyes tightly together. I had the greatest urge to start crying, but I was determined not to, not in front of the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Gordon rested his hand on my arm suddenly, and when I opened my eyes I saw that he was considering me very seriously. "Are you all right? You looked a little peaked. Can I get you anything?"

I swallowed forcefully through my dry throat, wanting something to settle my stomach, but in the end I just shook my head and tried to smile a little. "I'm fine, I'm just a little...woozy."

Once again I clenched my hands into fists to keep them, and my arms, from shaking, but it was too late. Lieutenant Gordon had obviously felt them shaking, because looking down at my hands, he carefully took my right hand in his. My hand seemed so white and tiny in his big, protective, policeman hand.

After evaluating my hand for a moment, he looked up at me and gave me another small smile. "Your hands are clammy...cold as ice." He laughed awkwardly for a moment, as if to lighten the mood, and suddenly I loved him for it, even if it didn't work.

Abruptly, Lieutenant Gordon stood up, releasing my hand, and I looked up at him and he smiled kindly down at me. "Stay right there."

He quickly left the room behind me, and I sat there feeling stupid for my stupid clammy hands...but I guess it was better than bursting into tears. I sniffed and stuck my hands into the folds of my skirt between my thighs, to warm them up, but it didn't seem to be working. My arms were shaking worse then before.

I suddenly wondered what he was going to ask me. If only I'd paid attention to the countless detective shows I had watched in the past, when I was a teenager, I'd have been able to prep myself for the kinds of questions he was going to ask me. I was worried he'd ask something that would totally set me off, make me start crying or something, but then I shook my head. _Just answer his questions, Jane. _

A few moments later, Lieutenant Gordon came back into the office, and standing next to me, not kneeling, he handed me a styrofoam cup. I looked up at him questionably, but he only smiled down at me. "Drink this, just a little orange juice."

I took the cup carefully; I was worried that I was going to spill it. I clutched it securely between my hands, looking down at it. Indeed, it was orange juice, probably some donated from Martin - he brought orange juice with him to work every day. Cautiously, I took a sip of it, loving the cold, sweet taste on my tongue, and it felt refreshing going down my throat. Before I knew it, I had downed half the cup, and strangely I was already beginning to feel a little better.

Lieutenant Gordon dragged Mr. Halterstead's chair out from behind the desk and wheeled it in front of me, so that he could have access to the one corner of the desk. It surprised me; I figured he was just going to sit at the desk and question me from there. Then again, I guess this was a little more protocol, talking face to face. Lieutenant Gordon had with him a file folder that he put down on the desk, and turning towards me, he produced a little notepad in one hand, and looked up at me, smiling a little.

"That better?" He asked, and gestured with his pen to the orange juice clenched between my hands.

Looking down at it, I then looked up at him and nodded, smiling just a little. "Yeah, it is...thank you, Lieutenant."

Nodding, he began to flip through a few pages in his notebook, and when he seemed content on a spot, he looked up at me and his expression became very serious. "Jane, do you think you could walk me through what happened today? Step by step?"

I considered his eyes for a moment, his sad blue eyes told me that I could trust him with anything. Looking down at the cup of orange juice in my hands, I cleared my throat a little and then reached over to put the juice on the desk, nearly tipping it over once I'd let go of it. My hands were so shaky. "Sure...I uh, came into work this morning..." I paused for a moment, trying to think of everything I had done during the day. It hadn't been unusual, save for the discovery, so why was it so hard to remember exactly what happened before? "I...loaded up my cart..."

Lieutenant Gordon listened carefully and watched me as he did. I looked down at my lap; I had clasped my hands together tightly, so that they wouldn't shake. I closed my eyes, trying to remember. "I-I went through rooms 302-304 before lunch, and then 305 after...and when I got to room 306..."

I sucked in a breath, squeezing my eyes shut. Opening the door to 306 and knowing that something was wrong, _feeling _like something was wrong...I would never get it out of my head. It was like being stuck in a horror movie. "They were due-outs...they were supposed to be out by this morning, so I just...let myself in..."

"And what time was that at?" Gordon asked gently.

I tried to think...I knew I couldn't give him a precise time, but I had finished lunch at about 1 o'clock and then 305 didn't take me any time at all...it couldn't have been an hour, it was probably about 45 minutes...

Letting out a bit of a sigh, I chewed on my bottom lip. "I'd say...probably about one thirty to two o'clock this afternoon...I'm sorry, I don't have the exact time."

"No no, that's good." Gordon assured me, and wrote down the time in his notebook. When he finished, I looked up at him, and he was regarding me carefully. He leaned forward a little. "Jane, did you notice anything unusual? Was the door open? Were all the windows closed? Did you notice any damage in the room when you walked in?"

I tried to think about it, but all I could see was the bodies, the bloodied bodies warming in the low afternoon sun. The door hadn't been open...and as far as I could recall, the windows had been shut. There had been no immediate damage to the room, not as far as I could see, except for the blood in rippling patterns on the carpet at my feet...

I shook my head. I would have loved to be able to tell him something more useful, but the more I tried to think about it, the more I saw the bodies, and I shook it away. I knew I'd be seeing them for a long time. "...Not really."

Gordon nodded and then quickly scratched down another note in his notebook. I looked down at my hands, clasping them together, trying to warm them. The rest of the office was _so _hot, but for some reason, my hands just wouldn't warm up.

"Jane," Gordon said, and the tone in his voice had changed slightly. He seemed a little more serious then before, as if all nice-guy facade was gone. When I looked up at him, though, he looked at me imploringly, but not in any way that made me feel uncomfortable or pressured. I could tell he was going to start with the really heavy questions now.

"Jane, did you talk to the victims at any time?"

I froze, and my blood ran cold.

"I...did...last night." My voice was soft and shaky, and I huddled my arms closer to my body was warmth. I looked down at my arm, where the bruises were hidden by my gray cardigan, and suddenly I wanted to curl up, into a ball, and try to get warm under my bed covers, and huddle myself together, and not say anything to anyone for a long, long time...

Gordon must have sensed my discomfort; while remaining quiet, he leaned forward a little, cradling his chin in his hand, simply waiting for me to continue, allowing me to take the time to collect myself and my thoughts.

I swallowed tightly. "The uh, the guy caught me in the hall and asked for a...an ashtray and shampoo."

Gordon nodded in understanding. "Did you get the sense that anything suspicious was happening?"

How much could I tell him? Could I tell him about what the goon had said last night, and what he'd done...or rather, what he _could have _done? I opened my mouth to tell him about how he grabbed my arm and tried to pull me into his room...but what good was that, after all? The guy was dead, not alive and well, roaming the free streets of Gotham looking for another helpless young woman to prey on. I shook my head slightly. Telling Gordon that I was at risk of getting raped by the asshole was probably no help to his investigation. It was probably best to go with what _had _happened.

"Well...I knew the woman was a uh, a prostitute." I confirmed, wringing my hands and looking up at him.

"Did you talk to _her_ at all?" Gordon asked suddenly.

I shook my head. "No, sir. But I could tell she was a...they uh, they bring them here a lot."

Gordon nodded, and then looking away from me, he started making some notes in his notebook, scribbling faster than I could ever hope to read or interpret, but to take my mind off it I looked back down at my hands, thinking about how scratchy that pencil sounded on the paper...

And then, I thought of something.

"_You're disrupting my peace, and that sure is my business."_

Jack...Jack had been there, he had intervened, he had...

Oh my god...

He had threatened the goon with a _knife_! The same knife that could have been used in that murder scene! But then again...had Jack intended to follow up on his threats? Were they even threats, really? The goon had instigated the encounter, after all...Jack was merely...coming to my rescue, in a way...

I looked up at Gordon, who was still scribbling away, and I thought about telling him. But _what _could I tell him? That the man lying dead on the floor upstairs had tried to pull me into his room, and the gallant guy with a torn-up face down the hall had come to my rescue? He had left the goon more or less unharmed, and then gone back to his room. The goon and the hooker had been shouting at each other when I was all alone in the hallway. Would Jack have come back to do something? ...No. He was temperamental and territorial, yes, and sometimes it seemed like he would do something bad...but he hadn't. No to me, anyway...not really. Would he have done something so horrific as to kill two people in such a terrible way?

As I debated about whether or not to tell Lieutenant Gordon about what had happened between the goon and Jack, Gordon stopped writing in his notebook and turned to pick up the file folder he brought with him into the office. I watched curiously, keeping my mouth shut, wondering what was in the file folder.

As if reading my mind, Gordon looked up at me and smiled gently. "Jane, I have some pictures here I want to show you, if you don't mind..."

I frowned a little, wondering what kind of pictures he had that he wanted to show me. If they weren't of the bodies, how did they pertain to the case, if at all?

Wordlessly, I nodded, and watched as Gordon opened the file folder and held up the first large, glossy photograph for me to see. "Do you recognize this man?"

It was a mug shot, and I leaned forward to get a better look at it. The man in the picture was a rather sinister-looking man, bald on top, with a brown mustache and beard and big brown eyes that were _mean_. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was positively filthy, so far as I could tell from the picture, and on his arms were...well, it was hard to make out, but it looked like he had written or...scored tallies of fives all along the skin of his forearms. Whoever he was, he glared into the camera taking his picture as though he were going to kill someone, and from the look of him, I wouldn't put it past him at all.

But either way, I'd never seen him before in my life.

I shook my head, and looked up at Lieutenant Gordon thoughtfully. "I've never seen him before. Who is he?"

Gordon sighed a little, as though that was not the answer he was hoping for, and put the photograph back into the file folder. "His name is Victor Zsasz, he's an escaped patient from Arkham Asylum. He was spotted last night a block away from here."

Suddenly I sat up straight, a chill going up my spine. To think that there was a wanted patient wandering around the streets last night not far from the hotel...when I was walking home...

Gordon looked at me in a surprised manner, and looking down I realized I was clenching my cardigan hard in each hand. Releasing slowly, I smoothed it out and looked back at Gordon. "You said he was spotted a block away?"

The lieutenant nodded. "Yes, the bartender at the pub on the corner," Gordon thumbed the air behind him. "Said he saw a very peculiar type walk in and out last night. We've been searching for the last patients who got out on the break-out, you see, and Zsasz...well, let's just say he's someone we'd especially like to get back behind bars."

I frowned. That didn't sound good at all. "Has he...killed people?"

Gordon chuckled a little, which made me frown even more, and then, taking the picture from the file folder once more, he showed it to me and pointed to the marks I had seen earlier on the man's arm. "You see these tallies? Those are scars; each one carved for a person he's murdered. He has hundreds of them, all over his body."

My heart felt like it was going to drop into my stomach. Looking at the photo again, I saw that there was indeed a couple of groups of five tally marks on his forearms. I shivered and sat back as Gordon replaced the photograph. I began wringing my hands again, all manner of thoughts swarming around inside my head.

Lieutenant Gordon looked as though he wanted to affirm that suspicion, but instead he sighed a little. "I have another picture I'd like to show you..."

Oh geez...I readied myself for whatever horrors he had next, albeit the mass-murdering escaped asylum patient's mugshot had done enough damage already. I definitely wasn't going to bed without the kitchen knife. I waited, and then the lieutenant showed me another photo. This one was grainy, black and white, but it captured two people standing on a corner, casually talking. From the side, I could see that the man had a bald head and a dark mustache...definitely looked like the Zsasz guy. His companion was...was...

I clapped my hands over my mouth, a gasp leaving my lips. It was the dead goon!

"You recognize these two men, I take it?" Gordon asked seriously.

I nodded, curling my hands under my chin, my eyes never leaving the photographed goon in the picture. "I do...the one on the right is the...the dead man upstairs."

Gordon nodded, as though that was all the information he needed. "Zsasz worked as an assassin for the Falcone crime family, back when Carmine Falcone was still the uh, the king pin." Gordon said, and tucked the photograph back into the file folder. "When he was arrested, he was sent to Arkham Asylum under the insanity plea. That too is under investigation, since the doctor who admitted him turned out to be, well..."

Gordon cleared his throat, and put the file folder back in its place on the desk. He turned back to me and smiled gently. "A couple of days ago, we found another murder very similar to the one upstairs, not quite on the other side of the Narrows. The victim belonged to the Falcone family, and there was evidence found on the scene to link Zsasz to the murders."

I let out a deep breath and looked down at the floor. So this guy...Zsasz, escapes Arkham, and out of revenge or...something, decides to take down members of the Falcone group. It seemed plausible; one can never be too sure of the motives of psychopaths, but hey, what did I know? It all seemed to make sense.

Hell, it made all kind of sense. He could have followed the goon to the Palace...waited until the wee hours in the morning or whenever, broken into the room, killed them both, and got out without another word. That explained why he was seen at the bar on the corner looking all shifty; he was waiting for the perfect chance to strike.

"So..." I croaked a little, and cleared my throat. "You think this...Zsasz guy is responsible for the...the murders upstairs?"

Lieutenant Gordon nodded sincerely. "At this point, he is our prime suspect."

I let out a deep breath of...relief. But why relief? There was still a murder upstairs, one I would never be able to get out of my head; two people were gone. And if this Zsasz guy _had _murdered them, it meant that he was at the Palace, and could come back at any time...

I noticed that Lieutenant Gordon gathered together both his notebook and the file folder, and turned to me with a very kind smile. "Well, those are all the questions I have for now. Uh, if you do remember anything...anything at all...that you think might help," he dug around in his jacket pocket and produced a card. He held it out for me to take. "Please don't hesitate to give me a call."

I took the card between my fingers and looked at it carefully. It was the Gotham City crest, declared Police Department with **James Gordon, Police Lieutenant **written beneath it, with two numbers off to the side, an office and a cellphone number. Somehow, it felt very reassuring and comforting to know I had his card and could get ahold of him at any time.

I looked up at him, and smiled meekly. "Thank you, lieutenant. I will."

"Okay," he said warmly, and stood up. Looking up at him, in the low light, it made me think that he had probably been a very, _very _handsome young man, someone the people could look up to, someone the people of Gotham could trust.

He held out his hand, still smiling at me. "Thank you for your cooperation. Take care, Jane."

I shook his hand and nodded to him. "You too, lieutenant."

And with that, he walked out of the room, and without his presence I felt all of a sudden very vulnerable and exposed. I don't know how long I was sitting in there, looking down at the business card he had given me, when footsteps sounded behind me, and Mr. Halterstead came back in, once again putting his hand on my shoulder in a comforting way.

"Jane, the police want to take your statement, and then I think you should head home and get some rest for a couple of days, okay?" He said in a hushed tone.

I looked at him, aghast. My first reaction was _what would Estelle think _until I remembered abruptly that Mr. Halterstead was Estelle's boss. "Are you sure? What about the third floor?"

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Just go home and rest for a few days."

I couldn't help but smile at him in the deepest gratitude. While he could have just as easily told me to _suck it up_ and keep on trucking, taking some time off seemed like the very thing to help the whole situation.

I nodded my head a little, still smiling up at him softly. "Okay...thank you, Mr. Halterstead."

Without another word, he patted my shoulder, continuing to smile down at me like I was his daughter or something, and then he left the office, presumably to talk to the officers who were still conducting their investigation.

I never saw him again.

**/**

About an hour later, I stood at the door to my apartment, keys in hand, telling myself over and over that this was _my _apartment. I would open the door and find my little apartment with the same pathetic furniture, peeling painted walls, and scuffed-up wooden floors. I would throw my keys in my pocket, hang up my coat, and be greeted by a hungry cat. There would be no blood, no bodies, no murder scene.

But my hand still shook as I put my key in the lock.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and let myself in. It was dark, and smelled a mix between my laundry detergent and dusty old furniture. Closing the door behind me, I slowly turned all the locks on the door, feeling my heart thud hard against my chest for no apparent reason, and when I was all locked up in the apartment, I turned to take my jacket off, and stopped to survey the little living room I was standing in.

No blood, no bodies, no sunlight. Just the dismal furniture, the crappy little television, the faded curtains on the windows, and the rain pitter-pattering outside. I let out a breath of relief I didn't realize I was holding, and after taking my coat and hanging it up on the hanger, I hugged myself and walked slowly into the kitchen. Straight for the vodka.

I leaned against the counter, sipping from a glass of poison, when Henry meowed loudly and came waltzing in, giving me a curious look. Setting down the glass, I scooped him up, despite his yowl of protest, and grabbed my glass of vodka, and went into the living room to flop down on the couch, holding Henry to me like he was the last cat in the world.

I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes and closed them tightly, burying my nose into Henry's fur and inhaling his unique smell. But once again, crying seemed to be inappropriate; I could mourn them, surely, as much as one _could _mourn a whore I'd never laid eyes on and an organized mobster who had legitimately made me feel weak, terrified and vulnerable...but for whatever reason, crying seemed to be taboo, and I don't know why.

I sat there for a long time, it seemed; Henry was perfectly content lying on my lap while I stroked his fur between sips of vodka, pathetic little sniffs -the telltale sign of tears- and sighing so heavily you'd think I was the most depressed person in the world. Eventually, when the sky was black outside the window, I thought about making myself dinner, but knew I wouldn't be able to stomach it, and thought about going to bed, knowing that I wouldn't be able to sleep. I felt so _lost_.

And then suddenly, the loud shrill sound of telephone woke me from my daze.

I literally jumped where I was sitting, and Henry yowled, so positively offended that I'd disturbed his sleep, that he jumped off my lap and gave me a look of disapproval. I turned to the phone on the end table next to me, running my fingertips under my eyes as I reached for the phone, not even thinking about who could possibly be calling at such a time.

I pressed the receiver to my ear and cleared my throat a little. "Hello?"

"Jane?"

I don't know who I was expecting, whether it was Estelle calling me to tell me that she needed me at work the next day, or Polly calling to tell me that she was mortified and wanted to know how I was, or maybe Lieutenant Gordon, calling to ask me if there was anything I'd left out in my testimony with him in Mr. Halterstead's office, but that was unlikely, since he didn't have a way to contact me.

Either way, I was both so incredibly shocked and completely over to moon to hear her voice, that I couldn't help but smile.

"Amy." I breathed, as if in disbelief.

There was a pause, and I could hear what sounded like dishes being rattled around in the background. My guess was that she was clearing the table after dinner.

"Were you sleeping?" Amy countered, in her somewhat accusatory, somewhat aghast tone of voice that I'd come so used to over many, many years.

"No, no..." I rubbed my face with my free hand, not realizing how tired I actually was, and thinking that sleep would have been pretty nice at that point. I guess all the excitement was rather draining. "I just uh...I just got home, I'm really tired. How are you?"

"Well, I've spent the past week trying to take wedding gifts back to the stores to exchange them for something I'll actually _like_," Amy said in an exasperated, biting voice that made me smile. "Why the hell do they make us set up a registry if they're just gonna get us something that's totally horrible from some crappy store?"

"What'd you get?" I asked, somewhat intrigued, pulling my legs up under my knees and leaning into the arm of the couch.

"It's a big wooden knife, fork and spoon set...y'know, like the kind you mount up on the walls somewhere in your kitchen if you're even...mildly decorating-challenged? They're just hideous, where am I gonna put them?"

I giggled, I couldn't help it. Amy was always _so _picky about everything, especially when it came to decorating. I remember when she got her first apartment, she spent at least a month getting everything the way she wanted it before she even considered having people over for dinner, and even then she insisted it wasn't anywhere near her idea of perfect. So nit-picky.

"Well you _could _put them in the kitchen, where they usually go." I offered gently, knowing it wasn't going to go over well.

"Right, with the stainless steel appliances and marble countertops? No thank you, Matt would have a fucking heart attack." She sighed over the phone, and I could hear running water. Definitely doing something with the supper dishes. "But enough about bridezilla, who's no longer a bride, she's just somebody's wife now...how are you doing? Y'know I saw on the news just like, ten minutes ago, there was a double murder at that shitty hotel you used to work at."

I paused for a moment, my brain farting, and then recovered quickly, trying to feign shock, and reminding myself that, as far as Amy knew, I didn't work at the Palace anymore. "...Oh wow, really?"

"Yeah," Amy said as a matter-of-fact. "In fact, it kinda sounded like the police wanted to shut it down."

A sick feeling came over me suddenly; the cops wanted to shut down the Palace? After a couple of murders? Did they do that usually? I swallowed, trying not to get frantic. For all Amy knew, I didn't work there anymore, and she needed to keep on thinking that, at least for the time being. The thought of the Palace being shut down meant no work for Jane, and that was _not _a comforting thought, not in the least, not after everything that had happened.

I opened my lips to respond when suddenly a crackling met my ear, and sighing in aggravation, I turned to fiddle with the cord on the phone. Fuck, it was such a stupid, crappy old phone, I don't know why I still had it...

"Is that my phone or yours?" Amy nearly shrieked, sounding a mix between terrified and offended.

"It's mine," I told her, fidgeting with the cord. "This phone's been so crappy lately..."

There was a very pregnant pause on the other end of the line, and when I'd finished fiddling with the cord, having given up all hope that I could fix it, I realized Amy hadn't said anything and I chewed my bottom lip. When Amy paused in a middle of a conversation, it meant she was mulling something over, and that was never good; Amy was so good at pointing out inconsistencies that she would have made a fabulous lawyer if only she weren't so in love with being the perfect homemaker.

"Jane, you're not still at that place in the Narrows, are you?" Amy's voice was stern, the way her voice went stern the one time I'd worn her favourite pair of shoes outside and stepped in dog shit, or the time I'd found a pack of smokes in her purse and tried to smoke one in the bathroom. Needless to say, it was never a good sign.

And I, having grown up with a solemn fear of this tone in her voice, was powerless to answer her readily. "Uh-"

"Jane, what the fuck are you still doing there?" Amy demanded. "First there's mobsters running around all over there, and now there's some nut running around in a bat costume...and isn't there like some sort of poison in the air over there now?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. _Some nut running around in a bat costume_, that was gold. Amy never was one to keep up on current events. "It's fine, really. You should see this place, all the Falcone goons are completely on edge, it's kind of funny."

Amy made a grumbling noise in her throat over the phone, a sure sign of instant disapproval. Her future kids were absolutely gonna love that grumble, once they found out what it meant. "Well, I still think you should move out of there." She insisted, and then her voice became light and fluttery. "You could stay with me and Matt until you found a better place."

I snorted right into the phone; what a glorious idea that was. Staying with newlyweds shortly after they'd come home from their honeymoon, bickering about housework and taking wedding gifts back to the store to exchange them and who used who's towels and toothbrush and who's turn it was to cook dinner...yeah, no. No. Definitely no.

"You can't be that sick of him already." I laughed into the phone.

"Uh, believe me, I can. He thinks the wooden cutlery set would look good in the dining room, and his cousin Michael thought it was the perfect way to bring a sense of the good ol'farmhouse feel to our upside Gotham condo so wouldn't it be just totally _insensitive _of me to want to get rid of them?"

I had to take a moment to catch my breath, I was laughing so hard. I'd forgotten how cynical Amy could be, and how immensely entertaining our childhood had been because of it. Wiping away a tear, I shook my head, totally unaware she couldn't see me. And at that moment, my stomach grumbled, and my eyes began to ache with exhaustion; it was probably time to see to some bodily needs and hit the hay. "Listen, I...it's good to hear from you, but I'm tired, I should go to bed."

"Right, yeah, it's kind of late, don't know what I was thinking..." Amy said, somewhat distractedly. "But hey uh, listen...I had lunch with Dad yesterday, he said they haven't heard from you in like, a few months or something. You should call them."

I felt my smile falter, realizing just how long it'd been since I talked to my parents, and how several times over the past two weeks I'd often contemplated about calling them, just to hear their voices in case...well...in case anything happened. The Narrows were unpredictable, to be sure.

"I'll do that," I lied, and felt terrible as soon as I'd said it.

"Good," she said, and then she sighed a little. "Well, I'll let you go, but listen, let's get together soon, have a coffee or see a movie or something, anything to get me away from my stupid husband."

I froze for a moment, thinking about traveling all the way to the financial sector to meet Amy for lunch in one of those posh restaurants, eating snails for lunch, and then going back to her massive, luxurious condo to see Matt, all decked out in his Armani suits and diamond-speckled cufflinks, and having lemonade on the terrace while admiring the view of the Wayne Tower and all the other skyscrapers rising up from Gotham's downtown.

"Yeah, I'd uh..." I cleared my throat a little. "I'd like that. I'll call you, definitely."

"Okay, sounds good." Amy sounded tired too. Guess exchanging expensive wedding gifts was more exhausting then I thought. "Well, have a good night."

I nodded, smiling. "You too."

"Bye Jane."

Goodbye Amy.

"Bye Amy."

/


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Okay, BIG authour's note here. There's several reasons for my lack of updates. One: I'm getting my ass handed to me by university course load, including a million papers which leave zero room for creative writing. Two: I'm in the midst of moving, very exciting but very time-consuming. Three: Part-time job. Four: **ARKHAM ****CITY**! I've waited all facking year for this stupid game! I beat it the other night and it made me _cry_.

Anyway, as much as I hate to use these reasons as excuses, I'm afraid that's what they are, and I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to update. Housekeeping will definitely **not **be finished by the end of the year. Also, one review encouraged me to let you guys know that I only update on **Fridays. **It might be very, very late Friday night, but I still update on **Fridays ****only.**

Very special thanks to **mehar23mia, ****Lady****Liesel, ****CC, ****Zara, ****PurgatoryNymphe, ****SleepyHeather, ****linalove, ****pourquoibella, ****ChristianBale****Girl****2010, ****whataFrenzy, ****eye****of****the****divine, ****crazyinabottle, ****JordanGoombette, ****Thank****you, ****kuhpow, ****Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, ****corbsxx, ****ujemaima, ****SuzukaKimmiko, ****elfenwindakachrno, ****TinkerbellxO, ****AmberCyn, ****trickstersink, ****anonymous, ****MissyChann, ****anonymous, ****KorroksApostle, ****Joker****molester****here, ****kabij **for your reviews**,**and a super big thank you to **Lorien****Urbani **who has graciously acted as a confidant in a time of "what ifs". :D Thanks so much, guys!

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**/**

After two strange, sleepless, vodka-induced days of loitering around my apartment, staring at the walls and staying in bed for what seemed to be hours at a time, I schlepped myself into my work uniform and returned to the Palace with borderline insomnia and deep-ceded misery. The rain had returned with a vengeance, and aside from the police cruisers patrolling up and down the streets, the Narrows seemed almost completely deserted. My head felt light and funny, like I was in a constant dream state, where everything was dark and dreary but soon I would wake up and see the sunlight pouring in through the window.

When I reached the Palace, the first thing Estelle wanted me to do on the third floor was try to scrub the blood stains out of the carpeting in 306, and I nearly slapped her in the face.

The murders, having been broadcasted on the news like Amy had said, had not helped at all with business or the overall reputation of the place. We thought we'd have trouble bringing in business what with the Arkham loons running free all over the streets, but with the sudden news that a particularly bad Arkham loon had possibly come into the hotel and killed two people in their room without leaving much of a trace...well, suddenly our sleazy hotel was a little _too _sketchy for our usual clientele of Falcone goons and hookers from down the street.

Martin was nearly asleep at the front desk, and as I made my way up to the third floor, slow and miserable, I noticed there were absolutely no sounds of life coming from behind the doors. I remembered a time when I used to hear all sorts of noises, from copulation, to loud television, to shouting and fighting, to foreign languages...and now, it seemed so silent. Almost as if everyone who _had _been here had cleared out just as soon as possible, just as soon as they'd heard the news.

Estelle hadn't said anything about the police wanting to close the place down. I imagine Mr. Halterstead gave them quite the argument and cooperated with their investigation in exchange for their word that they wouldn't try to shut the place down. But the way things were so dead silent, it seemed as though they might as well shut the place down. Obviously, there wasn't anyone coming in the way there used to be.

As soon as I reached the third floor, I looked down the hallway and a very strange feeling came over me. Making my way down towards the door to 306, which was covered by yellow police tape, I stared even further down the hall to 310.

I suddenly wondered if Jack had checked out while I had been gone. While I didn't suspect a few murders down the hall would have phased him much, hell I didn't know him at all. Perhaps he was on the brink of leaving, what with having to deal with the nosy maid who needed rescuing, and the murders were the final straw, so he packed up his greasepaint and his magazine clippings and hit the road, out into the Gotham rain, never to be seen again. It was possible, since the entire floor felt so empty and quiet, but the very thought of it made my stomach feel funny.

As much as he scared me from time to time, I'd be sad to see Jack go. He was the most exciting person we'd had in the hotel since I could remember.

I stopped at 306, staring at the door, and gently began pulling away the police tape that prohibited entry. Estelle had said that they had found as much as they could to carry out their investigation, and that she wanted the room to be spic and span and ready to go as soon as possible. She'd gotten rid of the mattress, thank God, (although why the hell would she have kept it there anyway?) and had reordered a few appliances that had been "damaged" from the blood splatter. The one thing she did _not _want to replace if she could help it was the carpeting, so it was up to Jane to get the blood stains out of the carpet.

I remember, as I was slowly removing the police tape from the door frame, that the thought of scrubbing out the blood stains seemed very, very wrong. I wasn't looking forward to the task to begin with, but there was something about the way Estelle'd said it...like the stains were strawberry jam and some annoying little kid had dropped a jar of the stuff all over the carpet and to get it out was a pain but it had to be done. But we all knew it wasn't strawberry jam, it was blood, and two people had been murdered in that room, a man had died on that floor swimming in a pool of his own blood.

As soon as I'd removed the police tape, I gathered it up in my hands and headed down towards the maintenance closet to get my cart. My breathing was heavy, and I willed myself to calm down and be strong. There was no way Estelle would _not_let me clean up the carpets, she'd been so callous yet serious about it. It was a matter of clean up the blood stains, or go downstairs and quit, and I was _not_in any position to quit my job...

And yet...I thought of Amy, and how she'd wanted me to get out of the Narrows, how she'd offered her home to me, even though she and her newlywed husband were, well...newlyweds. I chewed on my bottom lip as I brought my cart out of the maintenance closet and started down the hallway towards 306. I wondered if she'd been half serious about it, and while I wasn't seriously thinking about quitting the job and putting myself in a less then desirable state, the thought of being around her, for the first time in a _long _time, was very comforting.

I stopped the cart in front of 306, and taking my master-key gingerly in hand, I paused and stared down at the doorknob, remembering how just a few short days ago, I was standing in that exact same spot without any knowledge that anything was wrong. I reached forward and grasped the doorknob, which was icy cold, and taking in a deep breath, I put the key in the lock and opened the door.

The room was dark, and I could hear the rain against the window, and fighting the feeling that something from inside the room was watching me, and that I'd never felt more cold or queasy in my entire life, I took a step inside the door and turned on the light.

Whatever signs of a police investigation there might have been in that room were now long gone; now it simply looked ransacked and empty, a little like 301 after everything'd been stolen out of it. But indeed the mattress was missing, revealing the cheap wooden frame, and so were the curtains. They probably had blood on them.

The blood on the carpet still looked and smelled fresh; cherry red pools soaked into the dirty carpet, as though the goon and the hooker had been killed only a few hours prior, and I spent god knows how long staring down at the stains before I realized that even though they'd been killed almost four days ago. The room carried the strange, chilly feel that it was still occupied. I had never been in a room where someone was murdered before.

I could still see the bodies, the whore cuffed to the bed and the Falcone goon torn up...looking at the pools I could have easily described to you where the hooker's wig had fallen and where the blood spatter was obstructed by the goon's torso. I sucked in a terrified breath through my nostrils and closed my eyes for a moment.

A strange feeling came over me, like I shouldn't have been in 306 at all, let alone come to clean the place out, wipe all trace of their existence away. Staring down at the blood-soaked carpet I blinked and wondered why on earth were we trying to clean 306? Why wouldn't we just close the room off? Couldn't we just close the door, board it up, paint over it, and never speak of room 306 again?

I started to shake, and a low, dark feeling of anxiety settled nicely inside my skin. I took a few steps back, away from the sight of the blood, swallowing thickly. It felt like they were still there, standing there, staring at me. Something was staring at me...

I turned and walked swiftly out of the room, feeling the cold, dead feeling at my back and sucking in a deep breath as I walked out the door into the lit hallway -

- and nearly ran straight into Jack.

I stopped myself just before the collision, craning my neck to look up at him as he turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder. He was standing at my cart with his back to 306 - why? But there was a strange look in his brown eyes. I hadn't seen him since the night before the murders, and I'd been dreading the thought that maybe he had checked out, what with all the murdering going on just a few doors down from him and all.

"Jack." I breathed, surprised to see him, and there in front of my cart, of all places. Was he looking for me? Maybe he wanted his room cleaned pronto?

Jack blinked down at me, his brown eyes big and as rich a brown as chocolate, and then he turned back towards the cart, as though something inside of it interested him greatly, and before I could walk around him to gather the cleaning products I was going to need to get the blood out of the carpet, Jack swiveled on his heel, the Batman doll in his right hand.

"Cuddling up to the Batman, are ya cup-_cake_?"

I stared at the doll, the harmless plush doll, and then up at Jack, who was staring down at me, considering me closely, and I couldn't help the frown that I felt weave into my features. There was something about the way he'd said it...sickly sweet but repulsed, all at the same time. Why did he say it like that?

I swallowed, and then shook my head. "I have to take it home," I said, nodding to the doll and looking back up at Jack. "My boss doesn't like it."

Jack scoffed in his throat, as though it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, and he looked down at the Batman doll in his hand as though it were a...chipmunk or something, something that people couldn't possibly protest to.

I watched him smile just slightly, and he held the Batman doll up towards me, and I laughed a little when Jack made the Batman doll dance a little, twisting his wrist from side the side. The angry look on the doll's face just made it funnier.

"Who in their _right __**mind **_could **ever **hate the Ba_t-_man?" Jack asked rhetorically, with a strangely playful yet meaningful tone of voice, one that I perhaps should have considered a little more seriously at the time, but instead I just shook my head.

"Why don't you take him?" I said suddenly, forgetting that there was a princely cat at home who very much liked the play and dismember plush toys. But it almost seemed more fitting for Jack to take the doll. 310 could use a little more cheer, to be sure.

Jack paused and stared at me, the tiny smile on his mangled lips gone, and when I looked up at him, his eyes were wrought with suspicion and confusion. I frowned, and then shrugged. "My cat's just gonna maul him, he's safer with you."

At that, Jack snorted through his nose, which surprised me; it was as if he found the notion that the Batman doll would be safer with him totally ridiculous. Nevertheless, he didn't let go of it, and let his arm fall down to his side, and looking up and over my head, he walked past me, without another word, into 306.

I turned on my heel, gaping at him. I wasn't sure if he was allowed in the room, since it had been a crime scene and everything...but it occurred to me that I was in the room about to clean up the blood stains. I guess so long as he didn't touch anything, he could have a look around...if he really wanted to.

I walked in slowly behind him, watching as he sauntered around the room, the Batman doll dangling in one hand, his shoulders hunched up almost at his ears as he walked with his head bent down, looking along the carpet. I could hear him smacking his lips, thoughtfully, as if he found the whole scene very interesting. I lingered by the wall closer to the bathroom, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my apron, and staring down at the blood stains with a heavy heart.

I had to admit, though...it was comforting to have him there. The room felt very strange to me, as if the whore and goon were standing in the corner watching us take in the scene that had resulted in their deaths. But it didn't phase Jack. He just sauntered around, looking down at the carpet, smacking his lips, and I was suddenly very grateful to have him there.

At one point, he straightened out his back and stopped moving, paused halfway between the blood pool where the goon had been found, and the splatter that had fallen over the side of the bed, where the whore's wig had fallen. He looked between the two, thoughtfully, and then turned and looked at me over his shoulder, his chocolate eyes big and aglow. "You get the cleanup duty, do ya cup_cake_?"

I snorted a little in my throat; he must have sensed my deep displeasure at being told to scrub out the blood in the carpet. I sighed heavily, my eyes turning down to the bloodstains, and shook my head slowly. I still couldn't quite believe it.

"My boss doesn't want to rip up the carpet unless we have to," I said nonchalantly, with a hint of real distaste. My eyes roved over the blood splatters, thinking, but at the same time trying not to think, about how I had come in and found the bodies. "It feels like they could still be here. Cleaning up their..." I didn't know what I was saying, and I doubted Jack was even still paying attention to me. "It's just...to simply clean them up as if they were never here...it feels so disrespectful."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the onslaught of a headache drawing near. I don't think Estelle was familiar with the term _respectful_, forget _disrespectful._

Standing in the middle of the room, looking down at the bloodstains, Jack smacked his lips, loudly, and made a contemplative sound in his throat. "Disrespectful to the killer."

...

_What?_

I rose my head, slowly, and looked up at him, watching as he stared down at the blood stain on the floor by the window, smacking at his lips. I felt my eyebrows knit together of their own accord, and I stared at him.

Jack continued to stare down at the blood stain on the carpet, his shoulders hunched right up, the Batman doll dangling in his right hand, the wet sounds of his smacking making me feel strange. And then, turning his attention to the bed frame, he sauntered over to it and inspected it for a brief moment, smacking his lips as though a murder scene was the most mundane thing in the world to him.

Frowning, I watched him pace the room. "...How so?"

Jack straightened his spine, turning his head slowly to meet my eyes, and gave me this weird look. It wasn't mean or sarcastic or exasperated, like the looks I'd seen and earned before. But his lips were slack, pursed thoughtfully, almost, and his rich brown eyes were soft as he stared at me. Staring at him, observing the scars that were visible, I saw the bulge under his cheek as he ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth.

"Think about it, cupcake," Jack drawled in a strangely high voice, wiggling his eyebrows at me, and then he looked down at the carpet, staring at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then pointed to it. "He was methodical."

I felt a very sudden, uncomfortable twist in my stomach, and I swallowed thickly, staring at him as he continued to consider the blood stains. What the hell did he mean by that? _Methodical?_

As if anticipating a response and not getting one, Jack looked over at me, frowning. "He considered where they stood and where they fell."

I stared at him, feeling cold and vulnerable. I had the utmost urge to keep him from saying anything more. "Jack-"

He gave me a tiny, tiny smile, the corners of his ripped lips lifting just a little, but I saw it as something different. It was sinister and menacing, it didn't say I was in any necessary trouble or danger, but it was definitely unsettling.

"Makes you think, doesn't it cupcake?" he asked in a strange, playful tone. "This is someone's life and life's work lying there, and you're just gonna scrub it out."

And his tongue lashed out against his scars, and I flinched. I hadn't realized how quiet I had gone and how cold I felt, how my hands were clenching the folds of my uniform, and how my heart was hard as thunder in my ears.

Why was he saying this?

...I had a feeling I already knew, but I couldn't be...sure. I didn't _want_ to be sure.

Jack's smile escalated into a grin, the same grin he gave me the day he cornered me in the bathroom. He lumbered towards me, looming in his great big raincoat, with his brown eyes glimmering, grinning, and I meant to take a step back, but I couldn't even move. It was scared to.

Jack came right up to me staring me down, this towering powerful man, a man with beauty, and a man with ugliness, and it occurred to me, I had never felt more endeared to someone so sinister.

After a split second, Jack shuffled past me, not uttering another single sound, and left the room. I could hear his heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall.

I swallowed, and sucked in a quick, greedy breath, and looking over my shoulder, I stared at the doorway, looking at the light pouring in from the hall. I half-expected Jack to return, darken the doorway, but all I could hear was the rain on the window.

No...he couldn't have...

But I didn't know him, either...

Breathing out sharply, I went to the door, and stuck my head out, looking down the hallway towards the stairwell. He was gone, gone down the stairs and out the door. I turned and looked down the other way, staring at 310's door, my master-key like a rock in my apron.

It was crazy..._you__'__re __crazy, __Jane! _Lieutenant Gordon said it himself the murders were likely committed by Sasz, or Shazs, whatever his name is, the tally-tattoo man. Lieutenant Gordon said it himself!

But then why couldn't I stop shaking? Why was there such heaviness in the back of my mind?

Would Jack have said what he said, even if...

I was out in the hallway without knowing I'd moved my feet. Jack had gone, the way he disappeared for hours at a time.

Suddenly my hand smarted, and frowning, I looked down to find my master-key clasped very tightly in my hand. When had I ever picked it up out of my pocket?

I looked down the hall at the stairwell. I couldn't hear anything; there was literally not a sound on the entire floor to be heard, and three stories down, I couldn't hear whether or not Jack had pushed his way through the door and made the bell jangle. I didn't know if he had left or not.

I looked down towards 310. _Why __did __he __say __it? __Why __had __he __said __any __of __it?_

I stopped myself, again my feet taking me down the hallway, not of my own free will. I chewed on my lower lip. If there was anything...if there was anything to live up to what he just said...it would be in the room.

There was a knife...he had a knife. If there was any evidence, it would be in the room.

I sucked in a shaky breath. _Just __wait __a __second, __Jane, __**wait**__. __You __can__'__t __go __snooping __through __his __room; __remember __the __trouble __it__'__s __gotten __you __into __before? __And __if __you __find __something, __what __then, __huh? __What __are __you __gonna __do?_

_Call __Lieutenant __Gordon_, I thought suddenly. If I told him what happened, if I told him about everything that happened, about the night the goon and the whore were killed, and then tell him about Jack, and what Jack said...

But could Jack have really done it? Why? He'd already intimidated the goon, would he have...

No, no, this was crazy! Jack was scary, to be sure, but it wasn't like he was a monster! He warmed up to me...as much as he could warm up to anyone, I guess, and not like it meant much, really...but he wasn't truly capable of...

_But you don't **know **him, Jane. He's only been here for three weeks...you don't **know **him!_

I stared hard down the hall at 310, my heart thundering and my hands clasped around my master key.

_Go back to 306, Jane. Scrub the blood out of the carpet before Estelle has a cow...c'mon, just go back. There's nothing in 310 for you to find...**nothing.**_

All of a sudden the hallway went eerily silent, and all I could hear was the shudder of my own breath. I had to go back to 306. I had to.

...But in the end, of course, I couldn't.

The master key was in the lock before I even knew I had approached the door to 310 at all. My mind was screaming at me to abort, go back before it was too late, but at the point the door was opened...it _was_ too late.

The room was dead.

Jack brought this room to life, whether busy at work doing whatever he did at the desk, or watching the cooking shows blaring on the television. The room almost seemed forbidden to step into when Jack wasn't there. It felt like a total invasion, an intrusion, like I shouldn't have been there, and I knew it.

I stepped inside, the cold air biting at my calves, and I quietly closed the door behind me, so that I'd be hidden from the outside world, in case Estelle came lumbering around to see why I wasn't scrubbing the blood out of 306.

Something in the air told me to get out and forget about my suspicions. But it was as if I was possessed; I tucked the master key in my apron and stepped further into the room.

In the low, smoky light that poured in through the window, I surveyed the room, frowning at the bed, which was messy, with blankets flung this way and that, the comforter hanging off the frame onto the floor. The desk was now overflowing with magazine clippings as well as the gutted magazines themselves, sitting off to the side. It struck my immediately that it I was going to find anything in the room, it would be in the trash.

I crossed the room in a hurry, wanting to get out and soon as possible. I was determined to put my fears to rest and go back to work with peace of mind. I approached the desk and found the trashcan underneath it, and bending down I wrenched it out from under the desk and began to root through it. Crumpled up magazine clippings, the occasional candy bar wrapper, but nothing consistent with evidence of any kind.

A little voice nagged in the back of my mind. _What __exactly __did __you __think __you__'__d __find, __Jane?_

I replaced the trashcan, feeling a little better but it occurred to me that there were all manner of other places I could look. I dropped onto all fours and looked under the bed and found nothing, and on top of the television sat the remote so primly and perfectly.

I sat up on my knees, frowning and chewing away at my lower lip, feeling particularly anxious, when I saw it.

On the bedside table, right next to the crappy clock radio, was a stained washcloth.

I stared at it for a long, long time. I swallowed thickly over a lump in my throat, and with shaky fingers I reached forward and picked it up. It was red.

I nearly dropped it on the floor. It was _red_, that same red you become oh so familiar with, not quite the colour of strawberries and not exactly the shade of lipstick you want to wear.

But there wasn't a whole lot of it...the washcloth was stained, but stain was very central, right in the middle of the washcloth. If...if Jack had to wipe his hands, well...then the entire washcloth would have been pink. But it wasn't. There was just a little bit.

I scowled, feeling deeply conflicted as I stared at the washcloth, held up gingerly between my thumb and my pointer finger in the light so I could get a better look at it. This...this wasn't anything. It was blood, of course it was blood...but judging from the amount of it on the washcloth, it was more consistent with a small nosebleed.

My breath became heavy, my lungs like two big stones in my chest, and I felt so incredibly conflicted. _It__'__s __nothing, __Jane. __It__'__s __nothing __at __all_.

But it was still **blood.**

I was about to fling it back to the nightstand when I noticed something else, just as I was holding it up in the light. There were _two_reds on the washcloth.

I looked at it closely. I could see the blood, diluted with the scent of soap, as it had obviously been used to wash a bloody wound or plug a bleeding nostril. But there was another red, much brighter, cheerier, and smelled so different...

_Greasepaint._

I stood up in an instant, my head whipping around, searching for the little tin of the red greasepaint he typically had sitting on the desk. It wasn't there.

I searched all over, setting the washcloth down on the nightstand table and checking behind it, to see if the tin had fallen behind, and it hadn't. I checked under the bed again, and then behind the TV stand, on the other side of the bed, but it was nowhere to be seen.

And then, of course, I remembered the white greasepaint, and with purpose, I went into the bathroom.

I turned on the light, and was met with the sight of the basin of the sink stained a very light cherry pink. I swallowed again, acutely aware of my heavy breathing, and there I saw the tin of red greasepaint, sitting next to the faucet...

The lid was off, and there was barely any left.

I scowled, stepped into the bathroom cautiously, looking at the bathtub as though frightened something was going to jump out at me from behind the curtain. But I was alone. Just Jane and Jane's frantic thoughts.

I stared at the little tin of greasepaint, and reached forward to pick it up, but then stopped. It was almost empty. Jack had been using it. But what _for?_

And then...and I don't know why...

I looked up, and considered the curtain hanging over the mirror.

...

I sucked in a frightened breath, swallowed. The curtain was loose hanging over the mirror, as though he'd taken it off and replaced it swiftly. _Why?_

Shaking, I reached forward and curled my fingers in the curtain. It gave easily, it would come off just as easily.

_It's nothing, Jane. Its a broken mirror._

But then why had I been drawn to it? It almost seemed to _speak_to me.

Gathering every ounce of courage I had, I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes for a moment. _It__'__s __a __broken __mirror, __a __broken __mirror, __a __broken __mirror..._

I pulled the curtain away in one swift tug, and it came away easily, falling to my side like a wave of water.

My eyes widened.

My throat went dry.

My lips opened to scream but nothing came from my throat.

All I could hear, all around me, was his laughter. That frightening, sinister, _laughter_.

I backed up away from the mirror, the smell of the greasepaint overpowering. I could see my face in the cracks between the red letters, utterly terrified.

It was hard to make out at first, what with the cracks and all...

But all I could hear was his laughter...and then I could make it out.

...

**HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA **

/


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Umm...wow, where do I start? I know I told most of you guys that I was going to update before Christmas, but there was a very sudden family incident and I was pretty tied up for about a week. Things are better now, and I'm finally in my new condo, so I hope to keep on top of my updates a little better from now on. Sorry about the wait, guys. I tried to update, I really did, but I just couldn't.

But holy crap, you guys, the feedback for this past chapter! I am so unbelievably blessed to have so many amazing readers and reviewers! Very special thanks to **Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, CC, Comidia Del Arte, AliceEcila, Iamborednow, linalove, C, Gir2345, corbsxx, ujemaima, SleepyHeather, Crazyinabottle, eye of the divine, Zetsubel, trickstersink, Dissolved Starr, Ayumi Vasquez, ChristianBale Girl 2010, mehar23mia, Frenzy In Delirium, KorroksApostle, TinkerbellxO, Cleonie Quinn, Lady Liesel, AnitaFajita, FantasticlyBrilliant, MissyChann, PutDownYourGuns, Katilix, Rock The Rain, BeautifulliarIMnotABeauti, HoistTheColours, pourquoibella, HelloKeke, honeybeeze, Lady Nerd, SuzukaKimmiko, anonymous, kabij, Lorien Urbani, Mariagoner, Amy P, ShaDow EmpIre** and** JamieKins1126. **Also, a great big thank you to everyone who added Housekeeping to their list of Alerts and Favourite Stories!

And now...very very late Christmas present. :D

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**/**

_Call Lieutenant Gordon._

I sat in the break room with my arms folded out in front of me on the table, the sterile light making the skin on my bare arms a sickly colour, a cup of cooling weak coffee sitting off to the side, and despite having downed half the cup, even though it had been scalding hot, I had goosebumps. I was shaking. I felt nauseas.

I stared down at the pristine little business card lying flat on the table in front of me. I'd been staring at it for a long time, since the moment I arrived early for the housekeeping meeting. I started up the coffee machine, sat at the table, rubbed my face for a good, long time. I hadn't slept well at all. I took out my wallet and found Lieutenant Gordon's card and thumbed it for awhile before setting it down and staring at it, contemplating calling one of the numbers.

_Call Lieutenant Gordon. Tell him everything. It might not be much, it might not be anything incriminating, but it's __**something.**_

I sighed and buried my face in my hands, fighting the urge to pass out then and there. The night's sleep was riddled with nightmares; if I didn't dream of opening doors to find mutilated corpses lying on the carpet and handcuffed to the bed, I dreamt of bright red lettering flashing across my subconscious. I startled myself awake several times, making Henry grumble in anger at having his sleep interrupted, and at one point, when I was dying for a swig of vodka to settle my nerves and calm myself down, I found I couldn't even leave my bed. I was worried that if I went into the living room, I'd find dead bodies strewn across my furniture. And I couldn't go to the bathroom to wash my face, for fear of seeing the writing on the mirror.

I wanted to cry so _so _much, but what the hell was crying gonna do? Crying wasn't going to bring back the goon and whore. Crying wasn't going to make me change my mind about one of our guests being a possible _murder_ suspect.

Resting my chin on my arm, I stared at Lieutenant Gordon's card. I knew that if I tried either one of those numbers, I would get him on the phone. It was early in the morning, but something told me he'd be in his office, or at the station somewhere, available to take my call. I could tell him _everything_, everything about what happened the night the whore and goon were killed. I could tell him what Jack said, how Jack threatened the goon with the knife and then sauntered off as if nothing had happened. I could tell him what Jack said in 306. I could tell him about the writing on the mirror...

But what was it, really? Did I have any hard evidence against Jack? No...there was blood on the washcloth that I found, but not nearly enough to justify he'd been in 306 when the whore and goon had been killed. And yes he had written something eerie on his mirror, but...well, he was kind of an eerie guy to begin with, maybe he was some sort of...artist, hell, I didn't know. And what he said in 306...

I sighed heavily and rubbed my forehead into my arm, taking in the scent of disinfectant off the table top surface, closing my eyes and fighting the urge to cry. What to do, what to _do?_

"Morning Martin," came Polly's voice as she passed the front desk and came into the break room. I rose my head just in time to see her take off her cotton-candy raincoat. She was smiling at me somewhat miserably. "You look how I feel, Jane."

Could I tell Polly? Would she understand? But she'd demand to see the mirror, knowing her...despite the fact I had a feeling she'd take my word for it, she was level-headed enough to know to examine evidence before making a decision. But what was the evidence I had? A broken mirror with crazy writing on it? It was _nothing._

If I let her into 310 with me to show her the mirror, Jack would know. I don't know how he'd know, but he would. And he wouldn't like it.

Pushing that thought away, I tried to smile at her, and as she was hanging up her coat I realized Lieutenant Gordon's card was still lying on the table in front of me, so I quickly reached out and grabbed it, and slipped it into my apron pocket before she could notice it. She crossed behind me, and I could hear her pour herself a cup of coffee as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

Polly sat down in the chair closest to me, her big brown eyes glittering. "Any luck with 306?" she asked, blowing on her coffee and then taking a sip.

I blinked at her, frowning. What did she mean by that? Did I have any luck finding _clues _in 306? Is that what she meant? I shook my head slightly. "What do you mean?"

"The blood stains," Polly said, smacking her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at me imploringly. "Were you able to get the blood out of the carpet?"

I was tempted to let out a deep sigh of relief, but simply smiled and shook my head once more. "No, it's uh...it won't come out."

"Hmm," Polly gave me an indifferent look as she sipped from her coffee cup. "I'm not surprised. You can't get blood out of anything. When I was 16, I went to my cousin's wedding, and one of her bridesmaids got a nosebleed right then and there in the middle of the ceremony-"

I squeezed my eyes shut, feigning an embarrassed laugh, and Polly chuckled a little too.

"Believe me, not something you wanna get when you're wearing a lemon yellow bridesmaid dress," Polly laughed, as though the mortifying memory was a source of great amusement. "It was horrible, gushing, all down her face and down the front of her dress," Polly swept her hands down her front, as if to clarify. She snickered. "I remember one of the groomsmen ushered her out so quickly and some of the guests were offended cause they interrupted the whole ceremony."

"God," I groaned, rubbing my eyes with my fists, but somehow I felt lighter, a little more cheery. Who'd have thought, especially after the past few days, that an embarrassing joke about blood would bring cheer to anyone?

Polly picked up her coffee cup and sipped it gingerly. "The best part of it was that she couldn't get the blood out of the dress, and she didn't have anything else to wear until after the dinner. So she sat there with this bloodstain all down the front of her dress."

I laughed a little. "That's so horrible, I think I'd die from embar-" I caught myself before I could finish the sentence, and pressed my lips together. There wasn't anything funny about dying, from embarrassment or anything.

Polly stared at me with her big brown imploring eyes, her smile slackening. Looking down at the table, as if sheepish about something, she quietly sipped her coffee and didn't look back up at me. I loved that she was sensitive enough to pick up the little things; she obviously knew I'd been through a rough couple of days and she wasn't about to make it any worse by making crude jokes.

Lois came bustling in a moment later, removing her raincoat and hanging it up before helping herself to a cup of coffee and slumping down into the chair next to me.

Was there any point at all in telling Lois? She and I weren't that close to begin with, and especially not after she'd been making fun of Jack, and then making fun of me for defending Jack. She'd probably use the whole hypothesis I had going as ammunition to unleash an onslaught of new suggestions and sexual innuendos about me and Jack...and then she'd tell Estelle and I'd be fired. She'd probably find the whole thing totally amusing.

I sighed, rubbing my temples, hoping, _praying_, that she wouldn't start any shit that morning. Suddenly I just wasn't in the mood.

"Did you guys hear what the cops are saying about the murders upstairs?" Lois asked, blowing on her coffee to cool it. "They say some escaped lunatic did it, just came in and killed them, just like that." She tapped a packet of sugar and emptied it into her coffee. I watched the table top intently, listening and trying not to listen at the same time. "Can you imagine that? Suppose any one of us was upstairs and this crazy guy just comes waltzing in, kills them, and leaves." She shook her head, sipping her coffee. "I just can't wrap my head around it."

I crossed my arms and pulled them into my chest protectively, staring down at the table; there wasn't anything to say.

Polly sighed heavily and slumped forward on the table, cradling her chin in her hand. "When are they going to find the guy, that's all I'm worried about. I live only a few blocks away, y'know."

I closed my eyes and shuddered violently. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about any of it.

An odd hush settled between the three of us, while Polly and Lois sipped their coffee and I just cradled my face between my hands, staring down at the table; for a moment, I had the urge to break out into great peals of laughter. They actually thought it was the lunatic who did it...they thought the Zsaz guy killed them. I shook my head slowly, rubbing my face.

I would have given _anything _to believe Zsaz was the one who killed them.

At that moment, Estelle came lumbering in, and we all snapped to attention, more or less. She looked exasperated, and it made me feel even more miserable.

But then...could I tell Estelle? She'd seen Jack, she'd probably jump at the opportunity to get him arrested, forget throwing him out of the hotel...but she too would want to see the mirror. And the mirror was _not _evidence, no matter how much I wanted it to be. And fuck, as soon as she saw that the mirror was broken, she'd turn it around on me, ask me how long the mirror'd be broken, chastise me for not telling her sooner, get even more pissed off then she usually was, and then fire me on the spot. No. No, I could _not _tell Estelle.

"Morning," she said, not looking at any of us, as she wrestled herself out of her jacket and hung it up on the coatrack, settling down into her seat as we all waited patiently for her to begin the meeting.

"Okay ladies, we have a bit of an issue..." she said with a guarded tone, looking between us to gauge our reactions. I imagine the look I was giving her was _I don't wanna hear it_ because her eyes hardened on me and then she continued, very matter-of-factly. "I'm sure you've realized that since the murders, we haven't exactly been getting the traffic we'd like, so we're running low on supplies, namely complimentary soap bars."

I wanted to snort right out loud, but I refrained, hiding my face in my folded arms, fighting the urge to laugh and the urge to cry. We had a possible murder suspect living up on the third floor, and Estelle was worried about fucking _soap bars_?

"So," she continued. "Until we get more people coming in, be thrifty with the soap."

There was no way this was going to go unpunished, as it were.

At my right, Lois gaped as though she'd been fired on the spot. "Seriously? First the shampoo, now the soap?"

Again, it was hard to give a fuck about soap bars, but both Polly and I knew that Lois sneakily helped herself to the little shampoo bottles from time to time, pleading dumb to Estelle, claiming customers wanted a bunch of them at a time. Wouldn't have surprised me in the least if she was doing the same with the soap bars too; probably why she was so pissed about it.

At my left, Polly groaned, setting her palms flat down on the table and looking across at Lois. "What are you worried about, have you ever met a guest who looked as if he was really worried about personal hygiene?"

Again, I hid my face in my arms. To think, all I wanted was a nice quiet morning, peace and quiet so I could collect my thoughts...I guess it was too much to ask.

"Some of the whores like to clean up afterwards, Polly." Lois snapped at her, raising her voice, and I had the greatest urge to hurl my coffee cup across the room to see it smash against the far wall, just to shut them up. Who _cared _about the _fucking __**soap?**_

"All right, all right," Estelle countered, annoyed, raising her hands to the two women as though she were about to put herself between the two of them, should they decide to have a full-on cat fight right there in the middle of the break room. "It's no cause for argument, it's just the way it is. Just remember, be thrifty with the soap, just until things pick up a little."

I shook my head, placing my hands against the edge of the table and I pushed myself out of my chair. The three women looked up at me with big, imploring eyes as I rounded the table and stomped out of the break room. I half expected Estelle to scream after me to get back so we could finish the meeting, but there was no way in hell I was going back in there.

I was wiping away angry tears as I stomped up the stairs. Lieutenant Gordon's card sat in my apron pocket, light as a feather and heavy as a rock, all at the same time.

There was no one I could tell. _No one._

**/**

I schlepped myself around the third floor for the entirety of the shift, moving from room to room at a snail's pace, listening for the sound of 310's door to open and close so that I could go shooting down there, quickly make the bed, and get the hell out. Again, I didn't think I was in any...well, y'know, danger, since if Jack wanted to do something, there was no doubt in my mind he would have done it already. And I _knew _I didn't have any evidence showing that he was in 306 when the goon and the whore were murdered.

I just...didn't want to go in 310.

It was 2:30pm when I finished all the other rooms; I'd forgotten how fast a shift could go by when the rooms haven't been slept in. Before I knew it, I was slowly moving my cart down the hall towards 310, contemplating excuses in my head as to why I should just skip it altogether and head home for the day.

Jack wouldn't say anything if I missed his room...but then again we'd made some sort of habitual, although awkward, conversation just about every time I'd been in there to clean after we'd had it out about the mirror. If I suddenly stopped going, even for one day, he'd probably be suspicious. And he was probably well aware of my nosiness by now that he'd realize that finding the writing on the mirror was not beyond my realm of snooping.

I parked the cart outside the door and took in a few deep, anxious breaths. I stood at the door for a moment; with the rest of the floor entirely vacant and silent, you could have heard the noise from the TV inside 310 all the way down the hall to the stairwell. Jack was definitely in there.

I swallowed, and for a moment I thought I was going to start hyperventilating. Somewhere in the back of my head, I was sure that he knew. He had made his actions fairly clear the day before, with what he said in 306, and he probably knew that I'd be in to clean his room and possibly find the writing on the mirror, he probably knew everything.

And if he knew everything, he'd know that if I skipped cleaning his room, he'd know I was scared; scared of the situation, scared of _him_, even. And god knows what he'd do with _that_.

Shaking my head and closing my eyes a little, I rose my arm and knocked several times, fast, on the door. _What are you so worked up about? You didn't find anything that qualifies as evidence in his room, you didn't find anything at all! Quit worrying!_

I stood there for awhile, listening to the muffled sound of the television through the door but not hearing the usual heavy footsteps coming to answer the door. I swallowed, looking down the hall and seeing nothing; was Jack asleep? With the TV blaring like that? Maybe he'd gone out for a bit, gone down the street to pick up something, figured he'd be right back, so he left the TV on.

I chewed on my lower lip a little, frowning. I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the master-key, looking down at it in my fingers. As much as I didn't want to go into 310, if he had stepped out for a bit, I could get in, make the bed, check the towels, and get out before he got back.

I sighed heavily; it seemed to be all I could do. The last thing I wanted to do was face Jack with guilt written all over me; he'd pick up on it for sure.

I unlocked the door and opened it, slowly. I could hear from the noise on the TV that he'd been watching a cooking show, as per usual, and as I stepped into the room, I saw that the light was on in the bathroom. I paused, sucking in a shocked breath.

Maybe he saw the mirror and knew that I'd found out. Maybe he left the room to come look for me. Maybe that's why he left the TV on; maybe he was going to...maybe he was going to-

"J-Jack?" I called into the room, not moving another inch into the room, one foot outside the door, pivoted to the hallway.

Suddenly, Jack stuck his head out of the bathroom, and all I saw was his gnarled lips in a great big frightening grin.

I screamed, and then he burst out laughing.

"Bit skittish today, ain't cha, cupcake?" Jack said between high-pitched giggles, and then his head disappeared back into the bathroom, but I could still hear him giggling to himself, like a little kid.

I pressed my hand to my chest; my heart was absolutely pounding. He'd scared the _shit _out of me and the last thing I wanted to do was to go into the room, especially with him laughing in the bathroom. But he saw me; if I left the room suddenly, he'd know there was something wrong. I sucked in a desperate breath and stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

I could hear the water from the sink running in the bathroom. He must have been shaving or...something. I fidgeted with the master key in my fingers, stepping towards the bathroom door, listening to see if I could determine what he was doing, but after a moment, I swallowed tightly, kept my head down, and rushed past the door into the room. It didn't dawn on me until a few minutes later that Jack was _in _the bathroom and not...doing whatever he would have done to me if he knew I saw what he wrote on the mirror; I tried to relax a little, and took in the condition of the room.

I felt defeated and disheartened. It was the messiest I'd seen since Jack checked in. The bedsheets were twisted up and falling off the bed, the desk was now overflowing with magazine clippings and cartons of Thai food, the carpet underneath the desk was littered with fallen clippings and food droppings. Now that I was somewhat sure Jack wasn't going to flip out because of the mirror, I had the urge to stomp over to the bathroom, glare at him, and give him a lecture.

But then again, I was the maid. This was my job.

I looked over my shoulder, towards the bathroom. I didn't know what Jack was doing in there, but I hoped he'd _stay _in there.

I went to work on the desk first, gathering the Thai containers filled with pungent half-eaten food in my arms. I couldn't remember the last time I had Thai food; it wasn't my favourite, but there were some good places to get Thai food in the Narrows. Each carton still had rice and vegetables in it, and I was annoyed; I hated people who wasted food. Food was expensive in Gotham, and for people like me, I had to make a trip to the grocery store last a long time. I wanted to stalk over to the bathroom and get mad at him for wasting so much food.

I gathered four cartons of half-eaten food, getting madder and madder, when I noticed they were holding down a long sheet of paper that curled once their paperweights were lifted. Curiously, I unrolled the paper and looked at it, frowning as I recognized it to be a blueprint.

It was a fairly complicated blueprint, by the look of it. My uncle was a carpenter and worked on my parents' house when I was a little kid, and I remembered them looking at the floor plan and deciding where they were going to put the new bathroom. But this blueprint dealt with a large piece of property, it seemed. And then, as I unfurled the roll a little more, the blueprint's title became clear: _**BANK OF GOTHAM CITY - DOWNTOWN BRANCH.**_

I stared at it for a moment, the TV blaring in my ear and the sound of water running from the bathroom in my other ear. Blueprints to the Gotham City bank...

What did he need those for?

I shook my head, telling myself to get cleaning and get out of there; it was none of my business, really. He probably worked there, or was planning to work there, how else would he have gotten the blueprints?

I walked towards the door, clutching the cartons of Thai food to my chest and rushing past the bathroom door so I wouldn't see what he was doing. I dumped the cartons into the garbage on my cart and quickly went back into the room with a bundle of clean sheets.

He was still in the bathroom, and against my better judgement, I was starting to get really suspicious. What was he doing in there? Was he washing off the writing on the mirror, in case he didn't notice I'd seen it and didn't want me to see it? I knew that I could just linger in the doorway and ask if he wanted more towels in exchange for the old ones, if I really wanted to know what he was doing, but I quickly shook that idea out of my head. Suppose I walked in on him while he was cleaning the greasepaint off the glass, then what?

I tried not to think about it, concentrating on the blaring cooking show while I stripped the bed and quickly remade it with fresh sheets. It was at that moment that I realized that Jack didn't leave disgusting little tidbits that I'd become so used to finding in the past. I hadn't come across a single used condom, dirty magazine, box of cereal, mini-bottle of liquor...it made me smile a little, in appreciation. If he _was _using these things, he was obviously keeping them hidden, out of sight from the maid, which made sense, considering his character, but I was still fairly grateful for it.

With the bed looking made and perfect, I smiled a little in satisfaction and headed out the door with the bundle of dirty bedsheets and dumped them into my cart, looking at the towels and gnawing on my lip a little. Looking back into the room, I saw that Jack was still busying himself in the bathroom, and contemplated just how much I would regret interrupting whatever he was doing with the promise of clean towels.

But I suppose my curiosity got the best of me. I figured that if he was doing something really private, he would have at least made the fair judgement to close the door, especially against the maid who was known for her fine snooping tactics. But the door was wide open, as if in invitation, and I knew I couldn't walk away with more clean towels that I ought to have.

Grabbing a couple, I held them to my chest, took in a deep breath, and headed towards the bathroom door. Standing just outside the door, I listened carefully, hearing only the running water, and I peaked my head in just a little. "Jack, do you want-"

I stopped talking abruptly. Jack towered over the vanity, his curtain of greasy hair hiding his face from me. The curtain hung securely over the mirror, and he held his hand under the faucet, letting the running water over it.

His palm was slashed from side to side.

I gaped at the wound. It was red and wide and angry, and Jack was picking at it with his fingers. "What did you do to your hand?" I squawked before I could stop myself. It was _obvious _what he'd done to his hand.

Jack seemed completely unfazed and indifferent to my nonchalant intrusion. "Cut it."

"With what, a box cutter?" I fidgeted, rocking on my feet, wanting to go inside and demand he stop picking at a wound on his hand, but I contemplated it for a moment, thinking of what he would do if I invaded his space. I can't deny I was worried he'd growl and shove me away, and I don't know why I didn't listen to my gut, which told me to _mind my own fucking business_, but it was the way his hand looked, and the way he was picking at it!

I shook my head, stepped into the bathroom, and set down the towels on the countertop. Hesitating a little at first, because Jack was suddenly more aware then ever that I was there in the bathroom with him, as he inclined his head towards me, I reached over and pulled his hand out of the water.

I paused, waiting for him to snarl and snap it back and demand I get out, but he didn't say a word. If anything, the air between us _froze_. I could feel his eyes on me, burning, but I was determined not to look at him.

I cradled his hand in both of mine. He had _huge _hands; one of his hands was about the size of both of my clasped together. And I could tell by his palm and the roughness of his fingers that his hands were strong.

But on further inspection of the cut, it confused me. The cut wasn't bleeding, and it looked like a fairly clean cut. But it wasn't _fresh_.

Why had he been picking at it?

"Jesus, Jack..." I breathed without realizing it, running my fingertips just lightly over the edges. It wasn't going to heal properly if he stood around for awhile just picking at it.

I heard Jack snort in his throat, nearly right overtop of me, which made me freeze in my place. "Nothing to have a fit about, cupcake." His deep voice rumbled, in a fairly indifferent tone of voice, but it still made a chill roll down my spine.

I cleared my throat, gently let his hand go, and took a step back, trying not to look at him, but as soon as I stepped out of his bubble, his eyes met with mine. He stared at me suspiciously, his brown eyes dark and accusing, as though he presumed I meant him harm, as if I was the one who'd cut his hand. I swallowed nervously. "Just - hold on, I've got a first aid kit down the hall."

I stepped out of the bathroom and then out into the hallway, taking a breath and shaking my head a little. What was I _doing? _This man had probably killed the Falcone goon and the whore in 306, and I was going to be his _nurse_? I felt like I had lost my goddamned mind.

But then something dawned on me.

The washcloth...the washcloth that I had found in 310 with the blood on it.

...Well obviously that blood was from the cut on his hand!

Suddenly I was so elated I could have wept with tears of joy. Of course, it all made perfect sense! The blood on the washcloth was centralized; he probably balled it up and blotted the cut with it when he first got it. That's why the cut didn't look fresh and wasn't bleeding; that's why I found the washcloth with the blood on it! And then of course, the sink! The sink had been tinged pink! He'd obviously been washing the wound and the blood had left a mark in the sink!

It still didn't explain the writing on the mirror...but I was willing to forget about that. After all, Jack was a weird one.

I was so happy that I hadn't heard the footsteps following close behind me until I was nearly halfway down the hall towards the maintenance closet. I slowed, suddenly all too aware of a presence at my back, and turning to look over my shoulder, I was shocked to see Jack standing right behind me.

"Where are you going?" I demanded, sounding a little more frightened than I would have liked.

Jack looked down at me like I was sort of crazy cat lady, as if I had suggested we do something and was suddenly offended that he accepted the offer. With one hand, he pointed down the hall, regarding me as if I were nuts. "Down the hall to the first aid kit, cupcake."

I stared at him in shock, and then pulling myself together, I turned around and resumed walking, the blood gushing into my face. I could have died right then and there; I didn't know he was going to _follow _me out of the room and down the hall!

I suddenly felt more conscious then ever. I held my head up and corrected my posture, and tried to walk confidently and quickly even though I felt like falling over and going into a coma. I felt his eyes on me as if I was on fire, and his presence at my back was towering and immense; but even though he was following me down the hall, I still had never felt more relieved in my entire life.

Coming towards the maintenance hallway, I took my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door, Jack stopping at my side and watching my hands as I unlocked the door and opened it. I was glad the maintenance closet was at least fairly tidy, because as I walked inside, turned on the light, and reached up on one of the shelves to grab the first aid kit, I noticed that Jack had followed me right inside.

Nervously, but determined to get it done as fast as I could, I opened the first aid kit and took out a tube of antibiotic cream and two big patchy bandaids. I would have preferred to wrap the cut on his hand in gauze and medical wrap, like my Dad had done when I slashed my shin open when I was 10, but this kit didn't have any. The bandaids would have to do.

I closed the kit, placed it back on the shelf, and looked towards Jack, who was regarding me curiously as he watched me. Clearing my throat a little, and feeling someone cornered with his eyes so intent on me, I lowered my eyes and reached for his hand. "Let me see."

Jack held up his right damaged hand to me, as easily as a child offering his wound to his health-conscious mother. Taking in a few shaky breaths, I unscrewed the cap on the tube.

"This gonna hurt, cupcake?" Jack's voice rumbled from overtop of me, like gentle thunder, and when I looked up at him, his eyes were wide and a shockingly rich shade of brown.

Going back to work, trying to hide the blush in the apples of my cheeks, I shook my head. "No, it shouldn't." and I gently applied antibiotic cream to the wound, squeezing out a bit the size of a pea and then making sure to cover the entirety of the wound with the cream with my fingertip. His fingers flexed a little as I worked, and I could feel the goosebumps come up on my arms and legs.

Yet, in spite of the awkwardness of it all, I was still feeling pretty relieved that I'd found out about the cut on his hand. If I hadn't, I could guarantee you that I would have gone on a long time thinking he'd been the one who killed the goon and the whore in 306. Realizing how silly I had been, and how silly I was being at that moment, I relaxed a little, and convinced myself that even while I had first suspected the man of being a murderer, I had taken the time to act as a nurse and found out the truth. I won't lie: it was a pretty wonderful feeling.

With the cut slathered with a thin layer of cream, I capped the tube and put it away and then peeled apart the two patch bandaids and laid them gently side by side over the cut. They didn't completely cover the cut from side to side, but either way it wasn't going to get infected. Stepping back and balling up the bandaid paper, I looked at his hand and couldn't help smiling. "There."

Jack flexed his fingers and lifted his hand up to inspect it under the light. I watched him, realizing for the first time that he was wearing a gray wife-beater and his arms and torso looked as toned as ever, but he stood right under the light, making his gnarled scars look aglow and bright red, and it deeply startled me for a moment.

After fulling inspecting his hand, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Well now..." he murmured in an impressed tone of voice. "I feel like a whole new man."

I seriously couldn't help the smile that erupted on my lips.

But it was short-lived by what happened next.

"Jane? _Jane!"_

Jack looked over his shoulder, and I was confused for a moment because it didn't sound like Estelle. Pushing past Jack in the narrow maintenance closet, I stepped out into the hallway and found Lois standing by the staircase, looking at me imploringly.

"Geez, there you are; how many times do I have to scream your name?" she groaned, shaking her head and combing her hair with her long fingernails. "Hey, I'm out of soap, give me some of yours, will ya."

I frowned; we'd had the conversation about the soap just that _morning_, had she not been listening? Either way, I was running too low on soap as it was, I think I had three bars left, and one of those was rightly to go to Jack, since I hadn't gotten to the bathroom before I discovered his hand. "I can't, Lois, I'm short on them too."

Lois rolled her eyes dramatically and sighed. "Just take them out of the rooms, you have like, no one on your floor, I've got three."

Technically I could have taken the soap out of the other rooms, but if we had a rush of people coming to stay (yeah, I know, fat chance of that happening) they would notice the soap, and Estelle would have figured I was being stingy with the soap _before _our meeting. I couldn't risk the trouble; she seemed pissed enough with me those days to begin with. So I shook my head. "Just tell Estelle that you're short, she'll deal with it."

Lois scowled and gaped at me, as if I'd called her a cow or something. "My god, Jane, you're honestly going to throw me under the bus? Now?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers, starting to get angry. Jesus, try to do the right thing and make the right judgement, you still get chewed out. "I'm not throwing you under the bus, Lois, Jesus, I'm just saying -"

"You _are _throwing me under the bus!" Lois snapped. "You realize the shit I'm gonna get for being so short on soap now with our whole bathroom product shortage going on?"

I gaped at her, furious. "Well _maybe_ if you stopped stealing the soaps and taking them home, you wouldn't be short on them now, would you?"

Lois laughed in disbelief and shook her head at me. "God, you little bitch. When'd you get to be such a little bitch?"

And then, before I had a chance to reply, she went white, and had a look on her face as though she'd seen a ghost.

I froze, as the air between us changed suddenly, and I could feel a towering, immense presence at my back, literally over my shoulder. I was certain that if I reached behind me with my hand, just a little, I could have brushed Jack's shirt with my fingertips.

I waited to see if he'd say something, keeping my eyes on Lois, wondering if she was going to take off down the stairs screaming and crying. But she seemed rooted to the spot, staring at him behind me, looking as though she was about to pee her pants.

I wanted to grin. I wanted to fucking _smile._

Turning my head just a little, I could see Jack in my peripheral vision, just standing there, not saying a word. But he didn't _need _to say a word. His presence, and what I could only imagine as an ugly look on his face and glaring, menacing eyes, was all that needed to be said.

Feeling a little excited, and I must admit, a little powerful, even, I turned back to Lois, suppressing a smile. "It's like I said, Lois. I don't have any to spare. You should talk to Estelle."

Lois' face flared up, either with anger or embarrassment, I'm not sure which, but her eyes flickered between me and Jack. I knew she wanted to say something, I knew she wanted to accuse me of something and even accuse Jack of something. But I also knew that she wouldn't say a word; not one word of it in front of him.

Sucking in an angry breath and letting out through her flaring she nostrils, she turned towards the staircase. "...Fine."

And off she went.

I watched as she descended the stairs, waiting until she was completely out of sight before I smiled wider than I can ever remember smiling. I wanted to laugh and squeal with delight, and I wanted to turn around and throw myself at Jack and hug him and tell him that sometimes being so tall and mean-looking paid off, especially for a maid who was only trying to stand up for herself.

And then I heard his footsteps walking away behind me.

I turned around and looked at him, frowning at his back as he went. I thought for sure he was going to say something, give me a smile and congratulate me...well, _us_, on beating the wicked witch of the second floor. But he didn't; he just lumbered down the hallway, slowly, his shoulders up almost to his ears, his hair looking more greasy in the hallway light.

But then, just as I was about to feel really upset, or however you feel in such a situation, Jack looked at me over his shoulder, gave me a great big grin, and raised a hand - his bandaged hand - and waved.

**/**

**A/N: I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Years! In case you didn't know, I've posted a poll on my profile page; if you have a second, I'd love for your input, guys. The poll will close at the end of the month, and I hope to have the first chapter of the next story up on the 17th of February. :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **450 REVIEWS? :O You guys are THE BEST! Thank you all so, so much **linalove, elfenwindakachrno, Airelle Vilka not signed in (lol), crazyinabottle, Draven98, Comidia Del Arte, PurgatoryNymphe, ujemaima, HelloKeke, Serendipity's tears, JordanGoombette, tomieharley, Miss Tie, linnie kinda spinnie, MissyChan, GadgetCid, CC, Kyrie Twilight, Lady Liesel, Nancy Chavez, keepyourselfalive, pourquoibella, Btch, iwishtheskywasgreen, Frenzy in Delirium, corbsxx, Lady Nerd, mehar23mia, Gen3683icy6, AliceEcila, blumarshin, Cleonie Quinn, timbercat133, juicycouturevalerie, ryuzaki, lenaaaa, AmberCyn, thumbelinarocks, honeybeeze, EmmalineGrey, anonymous, kabij, Amri Ishvique, gege, fjdkjfsklafajks, Chelsey goes RAWR, ellenmae, allthelovers, HoistTheColours, sami, RedStarBloom, **and **valerieswaggg. **I apologize about the wait, guys. I wrote a chapter that I felt caused things to go just a little too fast, so if this chapter seems a little out of synch, you'll know why. Good news is, the next chapter is pretty much ready, so I'll have it up in a few short weeks. :D

Enjoy!

* * *

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**/**

A loud _snap _startled me awake. Blinking, I rose my head, listening as intently as I could half-asleep as I was, thinking that perhaps it was noise from the hallway. I was prepared to leap out of bed, grab my bat, and go stand at the door, in case someone was looking to break it down. But, waiting for another sound, listening to the rain splash against the window, a loud _crack _rang overhead, making me jump, and Henry, little lord of the manor he was, meowed in fear and jumped off the bed, presumably to hide underneath it.

Great. Yet _another_ thunderstorm.

I groaned and rolled over in bed, looking at the clock sitting on the bedside table. It read 6:32 in bright red numbers. I frowned; there was no way it was 6:32 in the morning, it was still so dark out. But if the clock was right, it meant I had to get up in 13 minutes, even though it felt like I'd only _just _gotten to sleep.

I could tell right away it was going to be a miserable day.

I snoozed, slugged myself out of bed, washed my hair in the bathtub, made toast for breakfast (milk for Henry) and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

I was a fine combination of a little bit dead and dreary as I made my way to the Palace through the pouring rain, under a steady roll of thunder. I got to the Palace and Martin hadn't arrived yet, which was odd, but I figured he was just taking his time in the heavy rain, older gentleman that he was. I put my things away and was pouring myself a cup of lukewarm coffee-flavoured water when someone came in behind me and sighed heavily.

"Watch yourself with Estelle today," Polly lamented as she grabbed her lunch bag from the cupboard and went rooting through it. "She's in a real mood."

I watched her, distantly stirring milk into my coffee-water, aiming to make it taste better, but when I sipped it...nope.

"What, like moreso than usual?"

"Uh uh, at least twice as bad," Polly leaned back against the counter and started to peel the banana she fetched from her lunch bag. "Apparently Lois is totally out of soap for the second floor, says she can't figure out why," she snorted, raising her eyebrows. "I'll tell you why."

I couldn't help but smile a little into my coffeecup, thinking back to the previous day and what had happened upstairs when Lois had come looking for soap. I suddenly had the utmost urge to tell Polly what happened, because I knew she'd totally delight in the story...but then I thought against it. It would only further reinforce whatever rumors were flying around about me and Jack. No doubt Lois was just aching to tell her about Mr. Freak silently staring her down after she tried to get soap out of my supply, that is if she hadn't gone blabbering about it already.

Yeah, no...no point in telling her. "I'll keep that in mind."

Polly smacked away at her banana, noisily, and I watched her as she looked down at her shoes and inspected their cleanliness, until something must have popped into her mind - her features suddenly softened a little, and she rose her eyes to me. "Hey, uh...how've you been?"

I looked at her and shrugged my shoulders, about to ask her why she sounded so guarded, when she suddenly elaborated. "Since the murders, I mean."

For a moment I blinked at her, not overly positive what she was talking about, and then all of a sudden it hit me like ice water to the face. There'd been so many things that had happened that she didn't know about, between the writing on the mirror and Jack's slashed hand and going from thinking Zsasz was the murderer to thinking _Jack _was the murderer and the whole mess of emotions and worries and everything in between...that I'd plain forgotten about the murders themselves, somehow.

I shrugged, trying not to show her how the murders were so obviously at the very back of my mind. "Oh, y'know...not so bad. Haven't been sleeping too great, but all in all...I'll be better when they catch the guy, y'know?"

Polly nodded and tossed her banana peel in the trash and replaced her lunch-bag in the cupboard. "Tell me about it. Just knowing one of these maniacs is still roaming around the Narrows..." she shuddered, violently.

I nodded, emptying my half-cup of coffee-flavoured milk water into the sink. "I'm sure Lieutenant Gordon will catch him. They've got Batman on their side too, remember."

Polly nodded, but didn't seem overly convinced. "That's true."

We walked upstairs as Martin came in and we figured Estelle was bound to come looking for us, wondering why we weren't working. It was weird to think of the Batman, suddenly; with everything going on in the hotel as it was, there hadn't been much time to absorb what was going on in the rest of Gotham. It seemed so surreal to think of the Batman, flying around in the dead of night, beating up thugs and helping the police arrest escaped mental patients. Again there came the weird fluttering hope that one day I might catch a glimpse of the Batman jumping between shadows on my way home from work.

I went about the rooms as diligently as I could that day, listening as the thunder roared on overhead and the rain slammed against the windows in the rooms. 306 was still closed off, and as I passed it I wondered what Estelle was going to do with it, whether to change out the stained carpets or keep the room closed altogether. Strange how the murders had almost completely slipped my mind for a few days until Polly brought it up that morning. Then again she wasn't entertaining a strange guest on her floor, not that I was aware of, anyway. Seemed only too natural that the murders and the murderer would continue to weigh heavy on her mind.

Lunchtime came and went, dull and uneventful. It was raining too hard to go walking to the newsstands to see if there was any more news of the Batman, and the break room was deserted by the time I got down there, Martin nose deep in his crossword puzzle. I chewed idly away at a peanut butter sandwich, thinking suddenly about Lieutenant Gordon and whether or not they'd found Zsasz yet. Surely Batman was helping them with their search...I wondered if Lieutenant Gordon had seen the Batman, talked to him, even. It gave me a strange little thrill, to think that I had spoken to a man who had spoken to the Batman, who might have been working with the Batman.

The light outside the windows dwindled even further after the noon hour, and all that was left were black clouds and heavy rain. I went from room to room slowly; I was tired, my feet felt like cement, and my mood was just getting darker and darker.

I got to room 307, where some jerk-off had taken what looked like green crayon and scribbled on the wall over the bed: _**I cover what's real, hide what is true, but sometimes bring out the courage in you.**_

"I've got the courage to kick your ass," I grumbled to myself as I spent about an hour scrubbing the crayon off the wall with hot, soapy water; by the end of it, I was just miserable.

I got to 310 later than usual and listened outside the door, not hearing a thing. Jack was probably out on one of his afternoon-long walks, or whatever it was he did during the day, finally making appropriate use of that massive raincoat beside making himself look bigger and more threatening. Sighing heavily, I took my master key out of my apron pocket and unlocked the door.

The door creaked open, letting the light from the hallway spill inside, and I, as I suspected, was greeted with darkness. No cooking show blaring away on the TV, no light on in the bathroom, no sounds of water running...no sounds of anything, really, except the thunder rolling dully overhead, and the noise of the rain against the window.

I sighed, stepping just inside the room and turning on the light to the bathroom, trying to assess what needed to be done. Could do with fresh towels, junk all over the desk needed to be thrown out...stepping out into the room I scowled as I beheld the bed, piled with up a few heaps of clothes, and I shook my head. How long had it been since Jack had done laundry? But then again, maybe that's where he disappeared to for hours at a time during the day.

I made my way towards the desk, looking at the overflowing waste basket underneath, and I looked out the window and wondered how on earth it could be so dark in the middle of the afternoon, rain or no rain. I leaned over the desk to get a glimpse of the view outside the window; there was nobody out on the sidewalk, which was understandable, given how hard it was pouring out. The Narrows might as well have been basked in perpetual night.

That was when I heard it.

A soft exhale behind me.

I spun around on my heels, expecting to find Jack's towering form silhouetted in the light from the hallway, standing and staring at me like some villain in a horror movie. But the light from the hall streamed in and no one blocked its way. No one stood in the way of the light seeping in from the bathroom. I had heard _someone _exhale, I _knew _I did!

I blinked, wondered if I was starting to hear things, when I looked to the bed, and saw, with help from the light from the bathroom, the mountains of disheveled clothes slowly lifting and falling on the bed, and to my utmost surprise I beheld the greasy, dark curly head resting on the pillow.

I gaped, realizing that the reason why the bed had seemed so piled up with stuff was because Jack was _**asleep**_in it!

Immediately it occurred to me to go racing for the door and come back later. As far as I knew, Jack never slept during the day, this was a new niche in his schedule, one he probably didn't like having interrupted. But something kept me rooted to the ground, and as I swallowed through the lump in my throat that had appeared so suddenly, all I could hear were the soft sounds of his breathing, and I didn't want to leave.

I took a step towards the bed, clutching the folds on my skirt in my hands so that my arms wouldn't shake. I don't know why, but I wanted to see him asleep.

I came to the side of the bed, and could see him so clearly that I could have smacked myself for thinking he wasn't there to begin with. He was lying on his side, with his back facing me, his head resting on the pillow with his messy dark curls askew this way and that, his right arm thrown up and over the pillows while his left arm lay dormant across his side. He was fully dressed, as far as I could tell, and was sleeping under the duvet, under the entire mound of clothing, and I wondered why he didn't get too hot.

A twitching caught my attention and I looked to the foot of the bed where the duvet was pulled up just enough that I could see his feet. His feet were bare, and he was flexing his toes in his sleep, which made me smile just a little. I looked over the entirety of his form, reveling that he had such a long, gangly body. He really was too tall for the bed. Funny how he never said anything about it.

I took another step forward and leaned over him, to get a better look at his face. From the light that spilled from the hallway, and at the angle I was at looking over him, I saw instantly the gentle profile of a beautiful man, the scars looking merely like messy face makeup in the low light, his full black eyelashes resting peacefully on the mounds of his cheeks, his chest moving ever so slightly with his steady, quiet breathing.

I took a moment to think about what it had been like when he first came, when he'd been so menacing and snarly. Looking at him, asleep and vulnerable, it didn't seem possible that he was the same man.

For the first time in a long time, I thought about the day I'd first seen the scars, the first time we'd really...well, we were never formerly introduced. He probably didn't even know my name. Weird how it was so difficult to picture him without the scars; seemed he wouldn't be the same man if it weren't for the scars.

...For the first time in a long time, I wondered where he got them.

I looked up suddenly when I was sure I heard footsteps coming down the hall towards 310, but listening all I heard was a door opening and closing, and figured it had been another guest come and gone, ready to stay the night. I swallowed tightly once again, and looked down at Jack once more. There was no way I was going to be able to do anything in the room with him sleeping there...I had a feeling he was a man who didn't take kindly to having his beauty sleep interrupted. As quietly as I could, I crept back towards the desk, tiptoed around the bed, and went towards the bathroom. Probably the least I could do was gather the towels and put up fresh ones.

I set to work in the bathroom as quietly as possibly, disregarding the curtain over the mirror, as I always did, and regarding the little tin can of greasepaint sitting next to the faucet with uncertainty, as per usual. Which colour was it, I wondered? The white, this time, or the red? He was probably out of the red. What on earth _did _he use it for? I hadn't seen any sign of it on the washcloths or towels, and I know at least _he _seemed grown-up enough to know not to go writing stupid remarks on the walls (unlike some other guests)...although he _had_ written in the red greasepaint on the mirror.

Setting the towels on the counter, my curiosity getting the best of me, I picked up the little tin can to see which colour it was. I set it in the palm of my hand, twisted off the cap, and...huh. Surprise. Black.

I heard a sound from the room, like a sleep-induced grumble, and hurriedly I replaced the cap on the greasepaint tin and set it down exactly where I'd found it. I gathered the rest of the towels in my arms, stooped down to grab a stray washcloth that had fallen next to the toilet, and, peeking around the corner to make sure I hadn't woken him (I hadn't), I carefully walked out to my cart and dumped the towels in the hamper.

Thunder clapped overhead, and I sighed, thinking about what a delight it was going to be going home, yet again, in the pouring rain with the thunder right above. Henry was probably at home hiding under the bed.

I went back into the bathroom, my arms loaded with fresh towels, and I replaced them as carefully as possible, and checked for soap and saw there was still a good-sized bar sitting in the soap dish in the shower. I couldn't help but feel defeated and relieved at the same time; it sure didn't seem like he washed his hair much, but at least he was soaping up when he showered.

Yawning, ready to call it a day, I walked out into the room, about to shut off the light -

Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed.

I gasped loudly, and took a step back involuntarily, and when the shock wore off in a second, I couldn't help but laugh. I don't know what it had been, the dark of the room, the light coming in from the bathroom, or maybe the fact that he was sitting there just so damn quietly with his bare feet flat on the floor and his long forearms set on his knees so his wrists dangled, looking at the TV as if his favourite cooking show were on...

I must have woken him up, but I hadn't even _heard _him stir, and the springs on the bed weren't exactly brand new.

Jack turned his head to look at me, and even from the low light in the room, I could see the sleepiness in his face, his eyes were tired and his scars drooped as though the perpetual Chelsea smile had deflated.

I couldn't help the gush of blood in my cheeks. The last thing I wanted to do was wake him up. "I'm sorry," I whispered in the dark, holding out my hands as if to ward him off. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Jack stared at me as if (A) he didn't realize who I was, (B) didn't know he'd been asleep and therefore (C) hadn't realized I'd woken him up. With a deep-set frown on his mangled lips, he turned and looked over his shoulder, presumably at the bedside table, and having caught a glimpse of the time, he groaned low in his throat, closed his eyes, and began to rub his face with his hands.

I didn't know what to do or say at that moment. I figured it was probably not a good time to ask if he wanted the rest of the room cleaned, but at the same time, I was there, and the bedsheets could have done with a change, and the wastebasket under the desk _was _overflowing...

"Do you..." I began to whisper, and then realized it was pointless since he was awake, so I spoke quietly. "Do you want me to come back later?"

Jack didn't look at me again, he just sat there and rubbed his face for a good long while, and when he was done, he sat and stared at the carpet for a single moment before launching himself up, off the bed, stretching out his arms and shoulders and walking towards the window.

I stood there, because I really didn't want to leave if he wanted me to tidy up, but he wasn't saying a word. He simply went to the window, leaned over to look out, just as I had done, and after a moment of deciding there seemingly wasn't anything to see, he turned, and quite swiftly, started towards me.

I froze, watching him as he scratched the back of his neck with one hand, his head bent down. I realized he was probably still tired; there was definite exhaustion in his movements.

Without looking at me, he rose a hand towards the room. "S'all yours, dollface."

And then he went into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it.

I stood frozen in my tracks, staring at the bathroom door, feeling a little annoyed that he'd been so brusque, but then reminded myself that I _had _woken him up, and he could have been in a lot angrier mood. I remembered when Amy and I were growing up, if anyone, _anyone _so much as set a single foot in her room while she was asleep and woke her up, she'd rise up and bite their head off, just like that (I knew, because I made a game of it when I was little). For some reason, Jack seemed like that type of sleeper, one who didn't want his rest disturbed.

The man was full of surprises.

I went to the bed and pulled away the pillows, a few of them still warm from having been slept on, and pulled off the mountain of clothes and the duvet when all of a sudden I heard the water turn on in the bathroom. I looked over my shoulder, thinking perhaps he'd gone in to soak his hand under the faucet and start picking at the cut again, but then I recognized that the rush of water was coming from the _shower. _

I froze. He knew I was there in the room taking care of the housekeeping, why was he having a _shower_? I bundled the sheets to my chest and looked to the door, wondering if I should have left and come back later after he was done. But then I looked down at the bed and chewed on my lower lip; I'd already started stripping it, it would have been too weird to come back later and get it ready.

I sighed heavily, resolving to get the bed and the rest of the room done before he got out of the shower. I stripped off the mattress cover, the duvet cover, and the pillow cases, and bundled them into my chest and carried them out into the hallway, listening to the rush of water as I passed the bathroom door. Going back into the room with fresh sheets, I sat the bundle down on the mattress when all of a sudden I heard the water turn off.

I won't deny I felt rather uncomfortable at that moment. Sure I had the door open and everything, but that didn't steel my mind from remembering that Jack was getting out of the shower, wet and naked, behind a single closed door. I swallowed tightly, hoping to hell I wasn't blushing (but I could already tell that I was) as I quickly replaced the mattress cover and hurried to replace the pillow covers.

There was no way Jack would come wandering into the room looking for fresh clothes...right? I had set all the clothes bundled on the bed on the chair, suppose he was looking to change? I felt the definite flush of blood rushing to the apples of my cheeks as I thought of what I would do if Jack came lumbering into the room with nothing but a towel around his waist looking to root through his massive pile of clothes for something to change into.

Luckily, he either took his sweet time in the bathroom or I moved like a dynamo putting the rest of the bed together. By the time it was done, I was about ready to leave...until I saw the state of the desk and decided that I probably should get rid of what was in the trash bin, at least.

The door opened behind me, and instinctively I turned to look at him, completely forgetting for a moment what I had been thinking about only a few minutes earlier, that he would come into the room adorned in only a towel, searching for another change of clothes. But, luckily, it was debunked. He was dressed in light sweatpants and a dark shirt, both were dirty but...whatever. His soaked hair clung to his neck and the sides of his face as his brown eyes glittered in the low light in the room.

He had smeared the red greasepaint on his scars.

One look at him and I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. He looked so _ridiculous_.

It almost seemed to be the reaction Jack was looking for, because he gave me a great big grin. "Whaddya think, cupcake?" Jack asked in a high, light-hearted tone, and then he stretched his arms out, as if to go **tah dah**. "Don't I look ready for a _night on the town?_"

I shook my head at him, but I couldn't help but giggle a little to myself. He looked like some sort of street clown...a real amateur street clown, but of course I would never say that to him. For all I knew, it was what he did during the day.

I approached him, watching his eyes as he watched me come up to him, and I handed him a rag I kept in one of my apron pockets, smirking a little. "It's not really your colour."

In an instant, his pleasant smile was gone, and I froze, thinking I had said the absolute _wrong _thing, that I'd completely offended him, but as I watched his eyes, I couldn't detect annoyance, or anger, and after a moment he simply shrugged his broad shoulders and turned his back on me, with the rag in hand, and wandered off towards the bathroom.

"Worth a shot," he mumbled, but he wasn't annoyed, I could tell.

I smiled to myself, listening as he turned on the faucet, presumably to wash the greasepaint off his face, and I turned back to the desk, shaking my head. I remembered when I had smeared a little of the greasepaint in the palm of my hand, how quickly it had stained a little. He'd be lucky if he wasn't wearing a red stain on his scars for awhile.

I sighed a little as I sifted paperwork around on the desk, listening to the water in the bathroom splashing away. For a moment I stopped and looked out the window, watching the rain splash on the glass, and I felt disheartened about how crappy it was going to be walking home after 310 was done. I tried not to worry about it and instead stuck to the task at hand, trying to decipher which of the papers on his desk he needed and which ones were just trash. Quickly, before doing anything else, I went out to my cart and collected a garbage bag from one of the compartments, and went back into the room, stealing a peek at Jack in the bathroom as he rubbed the rag on his face.

I couldn't help but shake my head as I shook out the trash bag and started putting various bits of paper inside. I remembered back to when I'd been so scared of Jack that I didn't even want to step inside the room, and seeing how Lois reacted to him the day before outside the maintenance closet...he wasn't really aspiring to be a clown, was he? With the makeup? He'd scare all the children away at the circus!

The thought made me laugh to myself, remembering how excited he looked when he came out of the bathroom with the greasepaint on his face, all done up to look like a great big smile. Maybe the man was just a really big _kid _in some ways.

I shook the thought away and continued with clearing the desk, when I came across a newspaper sitting under a pile of other stuff. Eagerly I picked it up, scanning the front page for any immediate news of Batman, since I hadn't gone out earlier to check the newsstands. Nothing about the Batman, but instead the front page featured a large picture of a bald man with big round glasses and a beard. He was dressed in a white lab coat, a doctor, from the look of it, and stood with his arms crossed, looking very sure of himself. The headline read **Dr. Hugo Strange Instated as New Head of Arkham Asylum. **Skimming the first few lines of the article, I guessed it was about how this Dr. Strange was going to make a few changes to the asylum, especially after the break out.

Weirdly, Jack had outlined "Strange" with what looked like a red sharpie, making it stand out quite vividly against the rest of the black and white, as if it was bleeding. I shook my head. Maybe Jack was beginning to look for words that seemed to describe him. "Strange" was certainly one of them.

Setting the newspaper down on the desk, I reached under the desk to grab the trash can, listening as Jack came back into the room from the bathroom behind me. I stood up and looked at him; he was drying his head with a towel, and the greasepaint had been washed off his scars. But, as I had suspected, there was the faintest hint of a stain on them. I could only have imagined what people passing him by in the streets would think of that.

Shaking my head, I frowned as I went back to the trash and observed the various cartons of Chinese and fast food in the bucket as I emptied it into the trash bag. How did the man stay so thin if all he was eating was junk?

"You're going to kill yourself if you keep up with this diet," I said aloud without even thinking, and set down the trash can and stopped myself in shock at realizing what I had just said. I stood up and looked at him, about to apologize for saying something so callous, but Jack didn't seem to care. I wasn't even sure he heard me. He was vigorously toweling out his hair with his gaze on the floor. Swallowing, I took the garbage bag in one hand and reached for the newspaper with the other, looking over as Jack flung the towel over the back of the chair and shook out his half-dried hair.

"You know the saying, sugarplum," Jack said, sounding tired, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, stretching his arm to take hold of the remote off the top of the television and turning the TV on. "Whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you..."

He trailed out, and his eyebrows rose as though he'd found a particularly interesting program on TV, and he leaned forward to watch it. I looked at him, and then I was reminded of the newspaper in my hand_. _

I couldn't resist. I held up the front page, and voiced what he had outlined. "Stranger?"

At first it didn't seem like Jack heard me at all, or maybe he was just ignoring me, having found a TV proram that was about a hundred times more interesting then the maid cleaning his room. But after a moment his dark eyes turned towards me, meeting my gaze for a moment before looking at the newspaper in my hand, observing his handiwork.

And then Jack looked up, meeting my eye, and he _smiled_, a real genuine smile, a remnant of the man he must have been, before the scars.

"..._**Yeah.**_"

/


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews **linalove, Lady Liesel, honeybeeze, Josie, WrongRightBlackAndWhite, HelloKeke, TinkerbellxO, xxthethieflordxx, PurgatoryNymphe, Frenzy in Delirium, Crazyinabottle, corbsxx, Misplaced Levity, linnie kinda spinnie, Sugary Snicket, BlueBird Blues, AnitaFajita, Lady Nerd, RedStarBloom, ChristianBale Girl 2010, AmazonaV, ujemaima, vickielee, iwishtheskywasgreen, Leyshla Gisel, Serendipity's tears, pourquoibella, darkdeadmau5, Saxonbandwagon, elfenwindakachrno, allthelovers, Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin, JordanGoombette, Lutricity, ellenmae, MissyChann, Charl, KorroksApostle, WebOfSmiles, AmberCyn, CC, Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, hermonine, Miss Tie, happytide, **and **EmilyEverlasting. **

It's also come to my attention that I have not formally announced the arrival of **my** **new Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow story **entitled _Scythe_. If you're a fan, check it out. :D

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**/**

I guess shortly after the whole greasepaint on the face and strange in the newspaper going on in 310, some guy showed up out of the rain and Martin gave him 303. Luckily, there had been soap in the bathroom that day. When I asked, Martin said that the guy was soaking wet, cold, and was only going to be staying for the night and he'd be out in the morning.

This was the same guy who'd taken all the sheets off the mattress, took the pillowcases off the pillows, and either stuffed them down the toilet or tried to flush them down, because when I showed up in the morning to clean the room, long after the guy had taken off, the bathroom was flooded.

I was angrily trying to dislodge the bedsheets from the deep crevices of the toilet with my yellow scrubbing gloves, cursing the entire time, when Estelle called my name and came lumbering into the bathroom. Abandoning the toilet, I turned to her, watching as she wedged herself into the doorway, both hands gripping the frame, not daring to take another step inside. She took in the scene with big, scowling eyes.

"What the hell happened here?" she asked, aghast.

I sighed angrily. "I guess the guy in here last night didn't like the detergent we use or something..." I thumbed towards the toilet, and watched Estelle's expression as she stared at the white bedsheets protruding from the toilet bowl and flowing out to soak up the water on the tiles.

She didn't say a word at first; she merely shook her head. "Goddamn druggies..." she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was considerably calmer than usual, it seemed, albeit just as annoyed.

"What's up?" I asked, leaning back against the counter, wanting to cross my arms over my chest but remembering the gloves, I simply gripped the edge of the counter.

Estelle leaned against the doorframe, giving me a particularly suspicious look, as if _I'd _flooded the bathroom, which made me frown a little. I prepared myself for a chew-out.

"That officer is back," Estelle said after a moment, in a very unimpressed tone of voice. She tapped her thick fingers against the doorframe and looked at me expectedly. "Says he wants to talk to you."

I blinked at her, drawing a total blank. My entire mind was on the toilet water slowly seeping in through the soles of my tennis shoes. An officer? When had I spoken to an offi...

"Oh," I said, rather taken aback. Suddenly it hit me like a brick to the face. "Lieutenant Gordon?"

Estelle nodded. "Yeah, that's him," and she nodded her head over her shoulder, motioning to the door. "He's waiting for you downstairs."

I frowned and chewed on my lower lip, and then I nodded. "Okay."

Estelle slowly lumbered away, giving me a very suspicious look as she left the bathroom. Considering why she was acting so strange, I slowly plucked my fingers out of the rubber gloves, removed them and placed them on the counter. I then turned on the faucet and washed my hands, looking at my reflection in the mirror, my freakishly huge hazel eyes staring back at me. Why did I look so nervous?

I dried my hands and locked the door to 303 and pocketed the keys as I walked towards the stairwell, crossing my arms over my chest. Lieutenant Gordon was back...why? Maybe there were questions he forgot to ask during the initial questioning. Maybe there was something they found during the investigation and he wanted to let me know what was going on? Nah, it wouldn't be professional of a police lieutenant to disclose the details of a case to a civilian, and certainly not to someone like myself.

As I descended the stairs into the lobby, I caught sight of Lieutenant Gordon standing with his back to me, inspecting one of the landscape paintings by the door with his arms crossed. I spied Martin, sitting at the front desk, staring down at the crossword puzzle with a pen in hand. Instinctively I straightened out my uniform and pushed my bangs out of my face as I reached the landing.

Lieutenant Gordon must have heard me come creaking down the stairs, because he turned and when our eyes met, I smiled and he smiled back, but I saw the tired look in his eyes as he came closer.

"Jane," he nodded in greeting, coming towards me.

"Hi Lieutenant Gordon." I replied cheerfully. I'm not gonna lie, it was kind of nice to see him again; it was always comforting to have a police officer around, especially in the Narrows.

"How are you?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked so tired, as if he was about to fall asleep on his feet, but he maintained his smile.

I nodded my head, folding my arms over my chest. "I'm doing okay, thanks. Uh, how's your investigation?"

Lieutenant Gordon's smile faltered a little and he dropped his eyes, which made me nervous. Was there something about the investigation that he'd uncovered that he found really unsettling? I pinched my skin, willing myself to stay calm.

"Well, actually," Lieutenant Gordon said, looking back up at me. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

I frowned. They must have found something in the room or...or maybe he found out that I hadn't told him about Jack interfering. I swallowed nervously, waiting for him to go on, hoping that my nervousness didn't show too much on my face.

Lieutenant Gordon didn't seem to think it was too big a deal, because he gave me a little smile and indicated to the clock on the wall. "Do you have a break anytime soon? Why don't I buy you a cup of coffee."

I was so taken aback by the offer that I couldn't help but smile widely. It'd been a long time since anybody took me out for coffee.

"That's so nice..." I couldn't help but say, and then I looked at Martin, thinking I had to find Estelle and tell her I was leaving, as opposed to telling Martin and just taking off. Surely she wouldn't fault me for going on break early if a police lieutenant needed to chat. I turned back to Lieutenant Gordon, smiling at him. "Just let me tell my boss."

Lieutentant Gordon nodded. "Sure thing, I'll wait here."

I left him in the lobby and ascended the stairs to find Estelle.

/

It was raining pretty hard, and even though I told Lieutenant Gordon about the little coffee shop being just around the corner, we drove over in his car. The Narrows seemed oddly busy for such a rainy day; there were people littering the sidewalks and jamming in at the news stands. I sat quietly as Lieutenant Gordon drove, inspecting the police gadgets he had in the vehicle, listening to the dispatch radio as I watched the rain on the windshield. There was something so weirdly comforting about being in a car, and especially a police car (up front, of course) while it rained. I don't know why, and I don't really know how to describe it, but it is without a doubt one of the most comforting memories I have.

The little coffee shop was fairly quiet; my guess was that a lot of people just weren't leaving the house on such a rainy day. Lieutenant Gordon bought be a great big coffee and a lemon poppyseed muffin, which I didn't ask for but appreciated greatly, as I hadn't eaten breakfast. We sat down in the front, close to the window, far from the people working at the counter. Once we were all settled, and I had thrown my coat off and started pouring cream into my coffee, Lieutenant Gordon sipped from his and seemed to get grim all of a sudden.

"Nice little place," he remarked, looking around.

I sipped my coffee and nodded, looking towards the coffee bar. "It's Falcone run, but it's okay. Pretty good coffee here."

I looked to Lieutenant Gordon and he smiled a little sadly, and I smiled back, continuing to sip my coffee. It was then that he sighed and leaned forward; he really didn't want us to be heard, I guess.

"Jane," he began in a careful tone of voice. "There was an autopsy done on the man found murdered in the hotel."

I paused and put my coffee down. I didn't know how to feel right at that moment; I don't know why, but I never had thought that the murdered goon would have had an autopsy. Seemed that what the killer had done was autopsy enough, what more was there to find? Not meeting his eye, I fiddled with a sugar packet, tapping it and then ripping it open at one end. "Oh yeah?"

Whatever he had to say next was heavy, I could tell, because the air between us was almost humid, it was so laden with tension. I didn't know what he was going to say, and I didn't want to hear what he was going to say. I had wanted to put everything, the murders, the suspicions, everything...I just wanted to put it all behind me and push on into the future. I sat there and waited, waited to hear what he was about to say.

Lieutenant Gordon leaned forward a little more, and his voice was very, very gentle. "The...coroner found traces of female DNA under his fingernails."

I looked up, and it felt as if my heart would stop. I stared into Lieutenant Gordon's eyes, his calm, trusting brown eyes, and I knew what he spoke was the truth, every little bit of it. But for whatever reason, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Lieutenant Gordon gauged my reaction and his face fell a little, as though he'd suspected something and now his suspicions were confirmed. "The DNA didn't match the woman he was with...Jane?"

I sat there, absolutely frozen. I stared at him, my eyes big and aching, and suddenly all I could feel was the bastard's hand on my arm, how hard he gripped my skin, hard enough to bruise, and instinctively I pulled my arm into my chest, and then of course Lieutenant Gordon caught sight of the fading bruises marring my skin just above the elbow, the bruises I'd neglected to hide that day with my trusty cardigan. He closed his eyes for a single second; suspicions confirmed.

And then I burst into tears.

I cradled my face my palms and cried, hard. _Cut it out, Jane, you're stronger than this_ but I wasn't. I'd been holding it in, and I couldn't hold it in any longer. I just cried.

I felt so weak and hapless and so _stupid_, but I don't know why. I felt angry with myself, angry that I'd been in that situation at all and that now I was discussing it with a police officer. But at the same time, I felt an odd sense of relief, relief that finally somebody knew what had happened; I wasn't just keeping everything in.

Lieutenant Gordon shifted seats so that he sat right next to me and laid his hand gently on my shoulder to comfort me. I tried to wipe the tears away but whenever I did, more tears just kept falling. I grabbed the napkins out of the dispenser and wiped my cheeks, chin and eyes, all the while Lieutenant Gordon sat next to me, quietly, with his hand on my shoulder, just waiting patiently.

I sniffed miserably as I wiped away the tears with a napkin. My eyes were starting to feel raw. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

But I didn't know what I was sorry about. Sorry that it had happened at all? Sorry that I'd kept it to myself this entire time? I suddenly felt worse, thinking that Lieutenant Gordon was going to scold me for not telling him the whole story during the first questioning.

But Lieutenant Gordon just sat quietly, gave me a moment, his hand squeezing my shoulder a little bit to comfort me. "It's okay, Jane."

Tears continued to leak out of the corners of my eyes and I blotted them away with the napkin balled up in my hand. When it felt like maybe I could stop myself from crying any further, I reached for my coffee and took a long, comforting sip, and set it back down again, sniffing miserably. I crossed my arms over my chest, pressing the napkin to the corners of my eyes.

"Jane," Gordon said beside me, quietly, and in a calm voice. "What happened? Did he hurt you?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, hugging my arms to my chest, looking down at my coffee and wishing I was anywhere else in the world but right there about to have that conversation.

"He...was going to try," I began, my voice sounding miserable and weak, and I sniffed, wiping my nose with the napkin. "After I gave him the...the shampoo and the ashtray, he...he grabbed me, and he tried to pull me into his room."

I paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath, and once again Lieutenant Gordon gave my shoulder a little reassuring squeeze. "It's okay, Jane. Just tell me what happened."

I swallowed over a lump in my throat, hating that I had to revisit it again in my head, but at the same time I wanted to do right by Lieutenant Gordon. He was being so kind when he could have been so angry. I wiped at my nose, brushed away by bangs out of my face. I would have done anything to take the discomfort out of the whole situation. "He...he nearly had me inside the room, but then-"

My voice choked out, and I was afraid I would give way to more tears, but I squeezed my eyes closed and willed myself not to.

Gordon just waited patiently and quietly, and I could feel his eyes focusing on me, not wanting to break away for a second. "...But then?"

Jack.

I wanted to smile. I wanted to turn to Lieutenant Gordon and say _But then Jack appeared, my knight in shining armor, he came to my rescue. _But this was no Arthurian romance, nor would it ever be. Jack had pulled a knife on the Falcone goon, would I disclose that too? That my knight in shining armor had also displayed characteristics that were less than chivalrous?

I swallowed again. I knew I had to go about this as carefully as I could. "...One of the guests interfered," I said quietly, my voice trembling, and I tried to will myself to be strong. "I don't know how he knew...I mean, I didn't scream or anything, I don't think...but he came out of his room...he rescued me."

There was something in my voice I didn't recognize when I spoke those last words, and I knew it was too late to do anything about it. Gordon had heard it, and I could tell it made him frown.

"What did he do, this guest?" Gordon asked inquisitively, but all the same, a little suspiciously too.

I couldn't tell him about how Jack pulled a knife on the goon. Gordon had a suspect, he had a prime suspect, and I knew he wanted to keep it that way. It wasn't illegal to keep a knife on you in Gotham City, hell, in some parts it was recommended, especially the Narrows. Jack had just been...defending me, that's all.

But still I didn't disclose that to him. In many ways it felt unnecessary; Jack and I were...friends, in a sense. I couldn't sell him out. "He...well...I don't really remember," I lied. "All I know was that the goon was grabbing my arm, and then there was a...a confrontation, and the next moment...I was alone in the hall."

Lieutenant Gordon quieted, and I knew he must have been pissed off. It was such a large chunk of the story missing and then to have it fall into place all of a sudden...I heard him sigh heavily next to me and I felt worse. I knew, that if he chose to bitch me out for withholding information from the police department, I deserved every single word of it.

"Jane," Gordon said in a quiet voice, and cautiously I looked up at him. His eyes were apprehensive, and his overall expression was one of conflict. "Do you know this guest's name?"

I didn't have to think on that one. "No."

Gordon nodded and his eyes looked away, almost as if he suspected just a bit that I was lying to him, but he didn't press it. "Which room was he in?"

I felt a real stab of horror in me at that moment. Was Lieutenant Gordon going to see him? Was he going to question him about what happened? No, Jack wouldn't stand for it, Jack wouldn't answer a single question.

"Room..." I heard myself repeating it aloud, staring at Lieutenant Gordon with a blank look on my face. I wanted to tell him that it was no good, Jack wouldn't talk to him. Jack would maybe open the door and slam it right in his face. Jack wouldn't say a thing.

Gordon watched me carefully, his eyes never leaving me. "...Jane."

I snapped out of it; he was a policeman, it was his job to investigate, and Jack was under obligation to answer questions. "Room 310."

Gordon nodded, as though that was the one magic answer he'd been waiting all day to hear, and taking a little pad of paper out of his pocket, he quickly wrote in it before tucking it away. I had a feeling I knew what he was writing, but I was suddenly more than anxious to know for sure. "Are you going to talk to him?"

"Yes," Gordon admitted as a matter of fact. "I'll need him to answer some questions for me."

/

Estelle was downstairs talking to Martin when Lieutenant Gordon and I stepped through the door into the lobby. She turned on us both with an inquisitive look on her face, one that I shied away from. I was not looking forward to answering any questions _she _might have had once she found out that Gordon was going up stairs to talk to Jack.

She came towards us, sticking her hands on her sides, her eyes flickering between us. "Back so soon?"

I didn't want to say anything, and luckily I didn't have to. At my side Lieutenant Gordon removed his glasses to wipe them but seemed far too eager to get on with what had to be done. "Miss. Houghton, I'm going to need to ask one of your guests a couple of questions, if that's all right with you?"

Estelle seemed a little taken aback, probably because she didn't expect one of the guests would have needed to be questioned. I watched as she shifted her gaze between Gordon and Martin, as though she had something to hide but was careful not to let him see. Finally she turned to Gordon and shrugged. "Of course, lieutenant. Take all the time you need."

Gordon didn't say another word, but he smiled to Estelle and very gently touched my arm, which I wasn't expecting, and I wasn't sure why he did it. I had a feeling he did it because he wanted to reassure me that this guest who had saved me the night of the murders wasn't in trouble, there were just questions that needed to be asked and answered. I watched with a heavy heart as Gordon went up the creaky stairs, proceeding to the third floor to talk to Jack. I'd never felt more nervous in all my life.

As soon as he was gone from sight, Estelle turned to me with the dirtiest look I'd ever seen her give me, and I cowered a little under that gaze, feeling less than brave at that moment. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

I hugged myself, looking at the stairs, wondering what Jack was going to do when Lieutenant Gordon knocked on his door and showed him his badge. "It's just a followup, he said."

"Mmhmm," she muttered in a very unimpressed tone. "And I suppose questioning your Chelsea-smile friend up there is just following up too?"

At that, I looked over at her, and she was giving me a hard, accusing look. I guess she had to come to the conclusion that Jack was the one Lieutenant Gordon wanted to question, since he was really the only guest on the third floor, but it didn't make me feel any less offended for Jack. I felt my nose begin to curse but I quickly dropped my chin so she wouldn't see and call me out on it. A terrible tension settled nicely in the air between us as we waited. I knew I could have followed Lieutenant Gordon upstairs, hung around nonchalantly as he talked to Jack, and I didn't know why I didn't; part of me really wanted to be there, just to see what Jack would do.

Luckily we didn't have to wait too long until we heard Lieutenant Gordon's heavy footsteps come down the stairwell. When he came towards us, he looked a mix between exhausted and deeply annoyed. He came towards me, his eyes on me.

"He isn't up there," he said, sounding defeated. "Any idea where he might be?"

I can't voice the relief that washed over me right at that moment. I opened my mouth to say something, but then I realized that I didn't know where Jack went when he went out. Hugging my arms into my chest, I shook my head. "I'm sorry, lieutenant, I don't."

Lieutenant Gordon nodded, as though he figured as much. He probably figured it wasn't in the nature of a guest to tell the maid where he was going, anyway. "All right, well..." he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a card. "If you could please, Jane, give him my card, tell him I'd like a few words with him."

He was looking at me so pointedly, holding the card out to me, and for a moment I'd completely forgotten that Estelle was standing there watching the whole exchange. There was something so telling in the look he was giving me, as though he'd come to the conclusion that Jack would trust me, would trust my word. If I told him that all Lieutenant Gordon wanted was a few questions answered, nothing more...Jack would believe me.

Maybe he figured that if Jack cared enough to save me from the goon, he'd care enough to believe that all Gordon wanted was information if it came from me.

I felt Estelle's eyes hard on me, and I could tell, just by the subtle change in the air between the three of us, that she wanted to know _exactly _what we had talked about when we were at the coffee shop. She didn't like being kept out of the loop, and that was exactly what was going on right at that moment.

But disregarding Estelle completely, knowing that I didn't have to say a word to her that was said to Lieutenant Gordon, I smiled nicely up at him and took his card from his hand, holding it carefully between my fingertips. "Of course, lieutenant." And I meant it.

Lieutenant Gordon smiled somewhat sadly at me, and in a way it broke my heart. It made me think that I should have pulled him into the break room, into Mr. Halterstead's office, even, and told him the whole truth, away from Estelle and Martin. I felt bad withholding information; he was so kind to me, he deserved to know the truth and nothing but the truth.

But before anything else could happen, Estelle broke the silence. "Any progress on the case, lieutenant? Something I can tell my boss?"

Gordon turned towards her, and I looked at her, shocked that she had the gall to ask such a question...but I couldn't deny that I too wanted to know more about it, find out what they had find out. He sighed a little, sticking his hands on his hips. "Well, without disclosing too much...our initial prime suspect has been...debunked, for lack of a better word."

My heart stopped, for the second time that day. I stared at him in shock.

What did he mean? What did he _mean?_ The man they were looking for was the tattoo man, wasn't it? _Wasn't it? _

"Oh?" Estelle asked, completely unfazed, crossing her big arms over her chest and giving him a strangely suspicious look.

Lieutenant Gordon dropped his head, as though he were embarrassed to talk about it. I just stared, unable to comprehend what I was hearing. "We found a blood sample on one of the bodies; unfortunately it wasn't a match to the man who is - sorry, _was, _our prime suspect."

My heart dropped into my stomach.

_Blood _sample?

"I see," Estelle murmured, trying to sound serious but there was an unwavering nervousness in her voice.

"We have our forensics team on it right now, Ms. Houghton; I assure you, we're doing everything we can." Lieutenant Gordon smiled at her, reassuringly, and then he turned towards me, his smile faltering. "Jane?"

I blinked, and realized I was gripping his card so tightly between my fingers that the edges were wrinkled. I snapped out of it, shifting on my feet, trying to muster a little smile, but finding it increasingly difficult. I felt like I was going to be sick.

"Are you all right?" Lieutenant Gordon asked me imploringly, leaning down to my eye level, resting a hand on my shoulder. I must have been pale; he probably thought I was about to faint.

I nodded quickly, once again trying desperately to smile to ease his concern. "Fine, lieutenant. Just fine, thanks."

Lieutenant Gordon gave me that sad smile once again. "You won't forget to give your guest my card, will you?"

I swallowed thickly, shook my head, and tried to steady myself so that my words wouldn't come out a jumbled mess. "I'll give it to him right away, lieutenant, I promise."

He nodded, and his hand squeezed my shoulder."Thank you. Take care, okay?"

I stared into his dark brown eyes and suddenly I was reminded of my Dad, and I had the utmost urge to start crying all over again. But I couldn't. I felt just a little too shaken.

Lieutenant Gordon bid Martin and Estelle good day and carefully walked around us, leaving the hotel with the bell jangling over the door. Without looking at her I knew Estelle had her eyes hard on me, and instead of waiting around to indulge her curiosity about what our discussion had been about, I crossed my arms over my chest and headed for the stairs, hoping, just really hoping that she didn't call me back. She didn't.

They'd found blood in the room, blood that didn't belong to the whore or the goon, blood that belonged to the murderer...

Blood that could have come from a _cut_ _hand._

_/_

Despite the rain, I went walking on my lunch break, holding the folds of my raincoat together as I stomped along the sidewalk, my feet landing heavily in puddles and splashing water against my bare calves, paying no attention to the people who rushed past me or the men calling out specials from the shop doorways. Part of me just wanted to get _away _from that godforsaken hotel. Part of me wanted to find Jack.

I couldn't eat anything. I couldn't stomach the weak coffee from the break room to try to steady my nerves. I couldn't swallow the rock hard Starbust candies from the vending machine, figuring the sugar would do me a little good. I felt sick to my stomach the moment Lieutenant Gordon left the hotel, and as I trudged from room to room, putting away towels and replacing sheets, I had to steady myself a few times, wash my face, calm myself down. But I couldn't get it out of my head.

I walked on and on, holding my head down, not even sure where I was going, really. I didn't have a clue where Jack went when he left the hotel. Given that he was gone from the hotel for hours at a time, I figured he went to a bar or a club or a job...but I had no idea where.

Even if I found him, on his way back to the hotel, if we crossed paths and stopped each other, what on earth would I say to him? _Hi Jack, guess that big raincoat comes in handy on a day like this, huh? Haha. Anyway, just wondering, that cut on your hand, yeah, the one I bandaged for you the other day, just wondering: did you cut that hand when you murdered the Falcone goon and the whore he was with in 306? Did you get blood on the bodies from the cut on your hand?_

I couldn't help but laugh to myself, thinking of the look on Jack's face if I asked him such questions. But in my head, it all seemed to fit together. I hadn't asked him _how _he'd cut his hand...would he have told me if I asked? I shivered, hard, and not from the cold or the rain. Part of me was convinced that he would have told me he murdered them if I only asked. He probably figured if I didn't tell anyone about the broken mirror, about the writing on the mirror...but that was insane. Surely he knew I couldn't be trusted _not _to tell the police if the murderer was staying in the hotel.

I hugged my arms to my chest, realizing just how chilled I was getting wandering out in the rain. Not such a good idea after all. Suppose I told Lieutenant Gordon about the cut on his hand. Suppose Lieutenant Gordon wanted to collect a DNA sample from him. What would Jack do? Instinctively I knew he wouldn't cooperate; it took him forever to get used to _me, _forget a cop coming around asking for information on a double murder. And knowing Jack's temperament, his behaviour...he wouldn't take such a accusation lightly, whether he was guilty of the crime or not.

I sighed heavily and hid in a doorway of a cigarette shop, leaning against the window, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. It was too much, all of it was just too, too much. Jack wasn't capable of murder...the writing on the mirror was weird, but _he _was weird.

But there was his cut hand, and the blood sample they picked up from the body.

I stared down at my grubby gray tennis shoes, soaked with rainwater, listening to the rain on the concrete, ignoring the people that passed me by. I must have looked a sight, this thin, black-haired pasty maid in a raincoat, huddled in a doorway like a forgotten orphan, looking like she'd lost her best friend in the whole world, like she was about to break down and start sobbing.

I was a maid. I was _just _the _**maid.**_

_**/**_

I was thoroughly soaked by the time I hung my raincoat up in the break room, sniffing pathetically, wishing more than anything that I could rent one of the rooms, take a long hot shower, and collapse into the bed and forget that any of this was actually happening. I trudged myself up the stairs to the third floor, dreading the remainder of the afternoon. I hoped Jack wouldn't return to 310 by the time I got there...facing him meant giving him Lieutenant Gordon's card. There was no way I couldn't give him the card, I promised Lieutenant Gordon, after all. But I could only imagine the look on his face and the accusation in his eyes he'd probably direct at _me _when I explained the situation, just when we seemed to find some...understanding.

It totally sucked. Everything about it just totally _sucked_.

As I took my keys out of my apron pocket and moved to the maintenance doors, I just so happened to look down the hall and saw light protruding at the end of the hallway. Confused, I took a step back, peering down as far as I could, staring stupidly for a good few minutes before I realized the door to 310 was open.

Jack must have come in while I was out.

I swallowed, fiddling with the keys in my fingers, wondering if I should give him Gordon's card right away; at the very least, his displeasure might have saved me from any cleaning 310 needed. I sighed heavily and realized that if I didn't have my cart out, sooner or later Estelle would come lumbering by and wonder just what the hell I was doing, so I unlocked the maintenance closet and moved my cart down the hall towards 310.

Parking the cart just out in front, I was met with 310's door propped all the way open, and it confused the hell out of me. Was Jack expecting me? Was he _looking _for me? He never left the door open, never. He wouldn't even toy with the idea, even if it meant getting the maid to check out his room sooner than usual.

I went to the doorway; the TV wasn't on. Light streamed out from the bathroom. Scowling, so unbelievably confused, I stretched out my arm and knocked on the door. "Jack?"

It occurred to me suddenly that he was probably in the bathroom picking at his hand, just as I had found him the day before. Without hesitating, I moved to the bathroom, expecting to find his tall, menacing figure towering over the sink with his hand held under the running faucet.

The scene I beheld froze me right in my tracks.

The curtain that had been covering the mirror was draped unceremoniously over the toilet. The writing on the mirror was gone, but left streaks as though it had been washed off hurriedly and without much care for whoever was to find it.

Estelle stood there, her hands on her hips, her face as red as I ever remember seeing it. She turned her gaze, hard on her shattered reflection in the broken mirror, to me, and her eyes were blazing.

I stood there, staring at her, completely unable to move. "Estelle."

I could hardly believe it.

She let out a hard exhale through her flared nostrils. "I figured something fishy was going on here," she growled dangerously, and nodded towards the mirror. "When were you going to tell me about the mirror?"

My lips shook, and as I anxiously looked at the broken mirror, thoughts swarmed my head as the panic slowly began to creep up through my toes and into my legs, making me shake.

"The mirror..."

I was too afraid to mutter any other words.

Estelle took a step towards me and pointed a big finger in my face. "You're on _thin_ _**fucking**_ ice, my dear!" she bellowed, and I winced visibly. "Don't make it worse by lying!"

I could feel the pinch of tears at the corners of my eyes, and determined not to cry in front of her, I desperately tried to think of something to tell her, something that wouldn't get me fired, but at that point it was all looking so, so hopeless. "...It hasn't been broken long, Estelle, I swear-"

"How long?" Estelle shouted, her face getting redder and redder, and when I failed the answer right away, she slammed her hand down on the counter, making a thunderous sound, that which caused me to jump. "How _long_, _**goddamn it**_!"

"A..." My lips shook so bad and my thoughts were such a mess, it was near impossible to construct any words at all. "A few weeks, that's all!"

Estelle shook her head, as though she absolutely could not believe my audacity. "Oh, is that _all_?"

I swallowed, biting down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying, but I should have known at that point that there was no use in trying to hold them back. "I was gonna tell you, I swear I was-"

Estelle wasn't even interested in hearing excuses. Once again she shoved her finger in my face. "This is coming out of _your_ pay, Jane."

I gaped, as though she'd punched me in the stomach. I knew that keeping the broken mirror from her was wrong, but if she only understood _why _I kept it from her. "But-"

"He may have broken the mirror but you're just as bad for hiding it for so long!" She shouted at me, indicating towards the broken mirror. And then, as if she knew she was going to have a heart attack if she stayed a moment longer, she took a moment to take in a deep breath and let it out. When she rose her gaze to me, her eyes were still blazing, but it seemed like the initial chew-out was over.

Thankfully too, for tears were streaming down my cheeks, though I barely noticed them. I cowered at the doorway as she moved out of the bathroom, pushing past me to come into the room, moving as though to go out into the hallway.

Once again I swallowed hard. It was so obvious, right at that moment, that I had to tell her, I had to tell her everything. I had to tell her why I'd hid the broken mirror. "Estelle-"

Estelle rounded on me. Her red face looked even angrier and meaner in the dull light between the threshold to 310 and the hallway. "Do _**not**_ argue," she snarled, and again I flinched. "You're lucky I don't fire you..."

She trailed out as her eyes landed on something behind me, something inside the room, and before I had a chance to turn and see what it was she was looking at, she charged past me, her girth forcing me against the wall awkwardly. I turned to see what it was she had seen.

As if things couldn't get any worse. It was the Batman plush toy, the very one she'd told me to throw out. The very one I'd given to Jack. It was lying down on top of the TV, as though just randomly placed there. But the moment I set my eyes on it, I knew I was a goner.

"Oh no..." I breathed, fresh tears pouring down over the apples of my cheeks.

Estelle's voice was oddly calm but I could feel the anger in it all the same, biting at me in the air between us. "...What the hell is this?"

I stood there, obliterated. I couldn't even leave the room. Nothing could save me from this.

Estelle rounded on me, her mouth agape, and her eyes wide and accusatory. She held the doll up to me as if it were a crucial piece of evidence in proving I had done a very serious crime. "This is _yours_, I **recognize it**!" she bellowed, the poor plush toy squeezing under the force of her fist. "What is it doing in here?"

My lips shook as I desperately sought an explanation. "I...I-"

And her eyes widened as though she'd discovered something very dastardly.

"You're _sleeping_ with him, aren't you?" Estelle snarled, her beet red face twisting and contorting into some demonic thing that was beyond furious as she advanced on me.

I held up my hands to stop her, shaking my head anxiously, tears escaping my eyes. "No, Estelle, _please_-"

She grabbed my wrist and gripped it so tightly that by instinct I tried to snatch it back, but her strength was no match for me.

"_Admit_ it," she roared in my face, spittle flying, her eyes about ready to pop. "Admit it, you little whore! It's in here because you're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

I shook my head miserably up at her, but I was so scared I couldn't compose words, which only made her angrier. She released my wrist but stared at me as though she were ready to bash my head into the wall, and in that moment she laid her hand on her shoulder and pushed me, _hard_, until my shoulder collided harshly with the sharp angle of the doorframe. "_Answer_ me!"

I gripped the doorframe with both hands, desperately trying to calm myself and my thudding heartbeat. A million thoughts were rushing around in my head like a swirl of bats, all squawking different explanations I could give her, but they all seemed to fade over the shriek of others. What explanation could I possibly give her that she would buy? What on _earth _could I tell her that would make her believe me?

I felt Estelle's heavy presence at my back, seething, and I could nearly hear her teeth gnashing in her fury.

But there was another set of eyes on me at that moment. Miserably, I looked up and over.

Jack stood there, his hair damp from the rain, looking at me curiously with a bit of a frown on his face, as if to say _what's wrong_. My heart sank into my stomach as I stared into his eyes, and vigorously I shook my head at him.

Estelle came up behind me, her footsteps like booming thunder, and I could feel just by her presence alone that she meant to do something, either push me again, dig her fingers in my hair and yank me back inside, something. But, exposed in the doorway, she paused, and I watched in horror as Jack's alert gaze shifted to her, standing right at my shoulder.

"Sir," she snarled very brusquely, right at my ear. She didn't even seem surprised to see him. "I have to ask you about the mirror. How long has it been broken?"

In a split second I saw the blood rise in his cheeks and neck, and I saw his hands twist into white-knuckled fists, and I saw the frown on his scars turn malevolent, and I saw the richness of his brown eyes give way to black.

_**/**_

O_O


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Holy shit, you guys. I cannot believe the reviews you left for that last chapter. I cannot even tell you how much I appreciate your kind and thoughtful words! Thank you so much **Misplaced Levity, Sugary Snicket, Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin, KrysOfSorrow, linalove, golden peaches, Leahxoxo, Miss Tie, Lutricity, Leyshla Gisel, Comidia Del Arte, WrongRightBlackAndWhite, iwishtheskywasgreen, J, HelloKeke, KaiH, CygenesMaudits, pourquoibella, TheTalkingCupcake, happytide, Saxonbandwagon, SleepyHeather, Charlotte, it0takes0skills0to0be0me, corbsxx, RedStarBloom, Lady Liesel, linnie kinda spinnie, SepiaDreams, EmilyEverlasting, CC, Crazyinabottle, AmazonaV, Trillen17, Serendipity's tears, vickielee, ChristianBale Girl 2010, PurgatoryNymphe, cuberftw, Lady Nerd, WebOfSmiles, honeybeeze, TinkerbellxO, Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, allthelovers, Ravenclaw992, Radioactive-Pingu, tomieharley, ellenmae, Snowfire, kittykat6625, ujemaima, Fanfictionjrs, swaggiekat, trickstersink, moony1981, gege, mercuryxx, IlikeKnightsInBangedUpArmor, StargazingED, LuminousFaith,** **HoistTheColours, loopycathair, valerie, ShipsThatFly, kelseyhbu, Reno254, Guest, shamenteen, Guest, Guest, Guest, Lauren Kassidy, Caty14, and FutureErotic. **Those of you who left reviews as Guests, I'd like to politely encourage you to get accounts so I can respond to your reviews personally! :P

Also want to send out a huge **THANK YOU** to **happytide **who designed and made this incredible cover for Housekeeping! :D

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**/**

One minute I was standing there, my hands gripping the doorframe, my eyes wide, staring at Jack and feeling Estelle heaving with anger behind me. My heart dropped into my stomach and everything seemed to stop. Everything.

And then it all happened so, _so_ fast.

Jack launched towards the door in full, fast strides, and I jumped forward, literally leaping off the doorframe, and putting my hands up to try and stop him.

"Jack, _no-!"_

I don't know how in the hell I ever figured I'd be able to stop him, being half his size as I was, and of course I didn't. He didn't look at me once, and that was what startled me the most. I'd seen this look before, when he confronted the goon in 306, that hard, vacant, angry stare, and he kept it trained on Estelle. Even when I gripped the sleeve of his raincoat in an effort to stop him, Jack didn't look at me.

Instead, he lashed out his arm and pushed me away, into the wall.

I heard Estelle shouting at him but I couldn't make out her panicked words. He'd backed her into the room, and when I recovered, I saw her standing back against the desk, with Jack advanced on her. Without a moment's hesitation I darted forth and once again gripped his coat in my hands and tried to pull him away.

"Jack!" I entreated to him, but my voice sounded shaky and frightened. "Jack, stop!"

He _did _turn on me then, and it was a frightening sight to behold. His eyes were pitch black and he turned and looked down at me over his shoulder, scowling, his black eyes narrowed to me, and at that point I stopped pulling on his coat, thinking instead he was about to turn his anger on me. Estelle seemingly forgotten for a moment, Jack angrily tore his arm out of my grip, causing me to pull my arms back, and then, pressing one big strong hand against my shoulder, he shoved me down and away, so that when I went back, I found myself awkwardly tumbling on the bed, quickly collecting myself.

Jack and I both turned our attentions back to Estelle, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw that she was gripping a pair of scissors in her meaty hand, holding them out in case she needed to strike with them. She must have gotten them from the desk, where Jack had been cutting up his magazines.

Oh, _gawd_...I wanted to tell her to put the scissors down, but they kept Jack at bay, and that was the first priority at that point, for both our sakes. Jack stood there, not moving at all, save for his hands which he flexed and then balled into fists, probably to keep himself from ripping her throat out. The anger radiated off him. Estelle kept her eyes trained on him, not once daring to take her eyes off him, not even to look at me seated awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

And everything just shut _up_.

Jack stood there, frozen, not even seeming to breathe, really, as though assessing what he could do since she now had a makeshift weapon at the ready. I sat there awkwardly, looking between the two of them, not sure what to say or do at that moment. Estelle's face looked like a big swollen tomato, but I could see the fear alight in her eyes, even in the low light in the room. Her chest heaved and still she kept her fist clenched around the scissors, holding them up above her head, ready to plunge if need be. It was suddenly very tense in that room, the noise turned to silence. All I could hear was Estelle's panicked breathing and my heart slamming against my chest.

"Sir," she said evenly, trying to keep her cool, but I could hear it wavering. She was scared for her life. "I want you to collect your belongings and vacate the hotel in an hour."

I won't lie to you. The moment those words left her lips, my mind just whispered _no._

A strange surge of emotions flushed through me right at that moment, a mix between upset and outrage. I looked up at Jack, standing so close to me, and he just stared her down, unflinchingly. I don't know what else I was expecting, of course she was looking to kick him out: he had broken the mirror and had all but assaulted her. But as far as I knew we'd never forcibly kicked someone out of the hotel before. For some reason I hadn't thought she would actually go that far.

And of course...there was a part of me that didn't want to see him go. But of course, this wasn't up to me.

"If you don't," Estelle continued, her voice becoming stronger, pulling my attention back to her. "I'll get the police involved."

Once again I looked up at Jack, but I couldn't see the look on his face to gauge his reaction. I swallowed over a huge lump in my throat and looked to Estelle, who kept the scissors at the ready, but held her stance as though she was ready to move.

And she did; carefully, she stepped around him; it was the bravest thing I had ever seen the woman do. Jack kept his eyes on her the entire time, turning to watch her. I was surprised she was even able to make her way around him, rotund as she was, but she managed around the television, and had her back to the door and took a few steps back towards it, easing on the scissors a little. Jack didn't move but he kept his eyes on her.

When it seemed as though she was at ease as she was ever gonna be in that room with that man, her eyes darted to me, and she tilted her chin. No nonsense. "C'mon Jane."

The look in her eyes made me stand to my feet, albeit unsteadily. I was still so taken aback by what had happened that I was surprised I was able to hold my footing at all. I meant to follow her because I knew she meant business; I was in a lot of shit, I wasn't about to make it any worse.

But I didn't have to. Before I could take one step, Jack held out his arm in front of me, blocking me from moving, completely stopping me in my tracks.

I froze, stared at Estelle in shock, and then looked up at Jack in question. He didn't look at me; he continued to keep his eyes on her.

"Do the _po-__**lice**_ know about your embezzlement?" Jack asked her.

The air between the three of us suddenly went completely dead.

I gaped up at Jack, but he wouldn't look at me, despite the fact he still had his arm held out keeping me rooted to the spot. I then looked at Estelle, frowning as this strange expression splayed across her features, and the fist holding up the scissors began to falter.

Her face tightened and she scowled at him. "_Excuse_ me?"

I looked up at Jack again, and watched as he tipped his chin a little. I knew that look all too well; he was narrowing his eyes at her, reducing her to the size of a pea under his scrutinizing gaze.

"No more shampoo, no more soap..." he said in an almost sing-song lilt, but in his deadly low voice. "Wonder where the money for such tedious little items goes at the end of the month."

I frowned up at him, and then I turned and looked at Estelle. Wha...how could he suggest something like that? How could he have known about our shortages on shampoo and soap, considering the man was gone all day when he was even here? I had the greatest urge to laugh nervously and try to tell Estelle that he didn't mean it, that he was just trying to get a rise out of her...

But then...something changed about her demeanor. Her entire expression changed; she no longer seemed angry, but instead she seemed perplexed, and her eyes widened a little, and she stared at him as though he had just announced her greatest secret in front of everyone.

Wait..._what?_

I felt my jaw drop open as I stared at her, completely unbelieving. It...it didn't make sense...but then again, didn't it? She was the hotel's housekeeper, she was in charge of keeping track of the toiletries and making sure we had enough of them in stock at all times. For the longest time I thought we were losing those items because we weren't bringing the money in, no guests, what with the murders and all.

I had never, _ever _considered that maybe something else was going on the whole time.

A weird noise escaped my lips, something between a gasp of relief and disbelief. Jack at my side didn't move, but he slowly lowered his arm to his side, no longer blocking my way. He didn't need to; I couldn't move.

For the first time ever, Estelle looked trapped. She looked between the two of us as though she couldn't find her way past us, that she was being forced to give an explanation that she simply didn't have. She actually looked speechless.

Then, after a moment, something clicked inside her mind, and Estelle smiled. She actually _smiled_, and she dropped the fist holding the scissors down to her side, and she shook her head slowly, looking between the two of us, laughing a weird little laugh, as though she simply couldn't believe something.

"Well, isn't this just _sweet_," she bit at the two of us, looking between the two of us, her eyes lingering on me a little longer than Jack with this weird look in her eyes, as though she found out the juiciest gossip to ever float through the hotel. Shaking her head, and continuing to chuckle to herself, she then set the scissors down on top of the TV, and looked back between us. "Go on, do what you want, what do I care?"

I watched in horror as she just turned on her heel and sauntered out the door, pulling it closed about halfway. I stared at the doorway, thinking that there was no way, _no way _she was just going to leave it at that. Surely she was going to come storming back in and yell at me to follow her downstairs so she could fire my bony ass. Surely she was going to scream at Jack and tell him to get out before she called the police. _Surely_ she was going to call Mr. Halterstead and at least get him involved, or call the police after all.

But...the way she reacted to what Jack said...it was too telltale. _Was _she really embezzling? How would Jack have known about something like that? He was never around, and I hardly said anything to him about the state of the hotel..._nothing_, in fact. Our conversations, however pathetic they might have been, didn't really touch on the financial state of the hotel.

_How had he known?_

I didn't dare move, and it took awhile for Jack to finally come back to earth and move across the room towards the door. I watched him go, shaking my head at him. I didn't really know what to say, but I knew _something _had to be said.

"Jesus, Jack..." I breathed.

He didn't stop, he didn't look at me over his shoulder; it was as if I wasn't even there in the room with him. I watched as he calmly went towards the door and closed it, closed it until I heard the click of the knob. I frowned; he never closed the door when I was in the room with him, never. I stood there and watched him, not overly sure what to do or say, as he removed his gigantic rain coat off his thin body and let it drop unceremoniously to the floor. He then went into the bathroom.

I stood there and listened for what seemed like hours. I didn't hear the water of the faucet in the sink come on, or the shower. I didn't hear toilet noises. What was he doing?

I began to take slow even steps towards the bathroom, though I kept my eyes trained on the door. There was a part of me that told me I should quietly slip out, get my cart put away, collect my things, and head home. It was difficult to gauge what kind of mood Jack was in, especially considering what he had said to Estelle and how he wouldn't even look at me after she had gone. What was he thinking about? What was he feeling?

I stopped at the door to the bathroom and hesitated before peering in. Jack towered over the counter, his hands stretched out on either side of him, gripping the edge as tightly as he could; I could see the veins protruding in his toned arms. He bent his head down, the greasy curtain of hair preventing me from seeing his profile. I couldn't see his expression or the look in his eyes.

But I saw the mirror, for the first time since I learned that it was broken. There it was, exposed and shattered, and Jack in a multitude of shatters reflected in it. I felt the same strange stinging sensation that I felt when I first saw it, a feeling not unlike heartbreak.

I looked at Jack, at this man bowing before this shattered image, his hands gripping the counter in rage. I wouldn't have been surprised if he was in tears, and I had the utmost urge to gently rest my hand on his arm, on his shoulder, be the one he had to bring into his arms and squeeze like a little kid missing his mother. I felt like I had to do that, be there for him, in what was obviously a time of great distress and self-loathing.

"Jack," I whispered, moving one foot into the doorway, watching him, excepting to see his shoulders give a little, watch his arms go a little slack, watch him crumble like a child and look for comfort.

After his name left my throat, he tensed, and slowly turned his head towards me. Once again, I expected to see his chocolate brown eyes flushed and red with tears, his cheeks sticky, his scars emphasizing his frown and making him look that much more sad...

...

His eyes were black. And something changed in the air between us at that moment. It wasn't sadness.

I knew that look all too well.

I had seen it before.

I knew what it meant.

_Run. _

_**RUN**__!_

His hands were on me before I could even grasp the doorknob and make my escape into the hallway. His fingers clenched around my arm and gripped my shoulder and before I even knew it, I was being pulled away from the doorway and thrown back, _hard_, against the small piece of wall next to the bathroom door. I coughed forcibly in a desperate attempt to breathe, as my breath left my body and pain shot up all along my back and the back of my head. My vision sparkled with stars and for a fleeting moment I had no idea what had happened-

And then I felt his fingers curl around my neck and start to squeeze.

I opened my mouth and gasped, desperately trying to let air in, but with my airways completely cut off, I began to panic. I curled my hands around the arm that gripped me and tried to pull it away, of course to no avail, and I tried clawing at it and pounding on it with my fists. The harder I fought, the more his fingers gripped me, and I choked and tried to get breath and began to kick my feet when I felt them lift from the ground.

I couldn't see him in front of me, I didn't know where to kick or where to lash out my hands. My vision was starting to blur and the panic inside me was so profound that I began to cry. I gasped against the fingers curled around my neck and kicked as hard as I could and pounded on the arm that held me with my fists, but he didn't budge. He simply _didn't_ _**move**_.

And then, as soon as it had begun, it seemed to be over.

I was clawing at his arm one moment, and the next I was thrown forcibly down onto the floor, my knees skinning on the rough carpet, my face coming face to face with some random piece of clothing. I coughed and sucked in deep desperate breaths and coughed some more, and touched my throat because I was sure, for a split second, that his fingers were still there, still wrapped around my throat, but they weren't.

I lay there for a moment, coughing and heaving and trying to regain control of my breath, and all the while I waited for a blow, the pounding of his fists or the stomp of his foot, or maybe even something else, some other makeshift weapon he had in the room. I closed my eyes and braced myself as my breath slowly began to regulate and I curled my limbs into my body and prepared for the worst.

Only it never came.

It felt like forever, and there was nothing but silence. I coughed against my bruised windpipe and rubbed my throat gently, trying to make the soreness go away, but I knew it would be there for awhile yet. When my breath was a little more regular and I was able to draw in long, quiet breaths, I opened my eyes and looked up. Only I couldn't see anything. And I couldn't hear anything.

With great difficulty, for suddenly I had become as weak as a kitten, I pushed myself up on shaky arms and took in my surroundings. The bathroom light streamed in, and the door to the hallway had been flung wide open.

Jack was gone.

I coughed a little more, and continued to rub my sore throat. And then the tears came.

**/**

The moment I was in the door, I ran for the telephone. Forget my coat, my purse, fuck it, fuck it all, but I couldn't even steady my fingers as I gripped the phone, held it to my ear, and dialed a number I didn't even think I'd remember.

Henry stared at me from the couch, looking perturbed and alarmed, as though he'd just come face to face with a wild animal that was ready to tear into him for dinner. I desperately wanted to grab him off the couch and hold him to me, squeeze him, although I knew he would hiss and swat at me, as he was apt to do when he was disturbed in the late afternoon.

But after a moment I couldn't even see him. My eyes were filled with tears yet again.

It was ringing on the other line, and I gripped the phone so hard I thought it was going to break. I hoped I could form words, I didn't know if I was able to, I hadn't even said goodbye to Martin when I got the hell out of that hotel. I raced through the streets, trying to calm myself down, trying to think rationally. The rain had been nice on my stinging face; nobody could tell I was crying.

I sobbed a little as I listened to the phone ring a third time. I was suddenly more aware than ever that I had left the door wide open behind me, and turning around I was about to make a beeline for it when suddenly -

"Hello?"

I gasped a little and froze.

It had been so long since I'd heard his voice, his crisp, deep, wise voice, the voice that read to me and Amy at bedtime and scolded me over bad math marks. Tears welled up in my eyes as I pressed my palm against my mouth so that he wouldn't hear me sobbing.

There was a pause on the other line. "...Hello?"

I sniffled, loudly, and gathering up as much courage as I could, I managed one meager little word into the phone.

"Daddy."

I could feel the hesitation on the other line quickly turn into panic. "Amy? Is that you?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears flowing down over the apples of my cheeks, and I tried to brush them away, but they just seemed to flow, never-ending. I couldn't say anything, I simply sobbed in my throat, listening intently for his voice again.

"Amy? Amy, what's wrong, are you okay?"

I sniffled, and cried, despite myself. I had never been so happy to hear my father's voice, wrought with concern as it was. I didn't know what to say to him at that moment, how to tell him what had happened, how to tell him I needed him to...to...

I let out another sob and listened for his voice. I swear I could _feel_ the realization through the phone as it dawned on him.

"..._Jane?"_

I slammed the phone down on the receiver and stared at it for awhile.

If I had the money, I would have gone. I would have flagged down a taxi and told the driver to drive, just drive me out of Gotham, over the bridge, through the financial district, just away from this cursed city. We'd get to Metropolis in a few hours, and I would find them. I wasn't sure where they were exactly, so many years later, in such a huge city...but I would find them.

But it wasn't just about the money...nothing was ever that simple.

Sighing heavily, I collapsed down onto the floor, my back against the couch, and curled my knees into my chest, front door be damned, cat be damned, parents be damned. I just sat there, sat there and let it out. There was nothing else I could do.

**/**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **You guys are SO amazing! Very special thanks to **Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, FutureErotic, linalove, allthelovers, KorroksApostle, kittykat6625, vickielee, walawalabadkoala, golden peaches, KrysOfSorrow, Insert Silly Pen Name Here, Miss Tie, Guest, bandgeek17, WebOfSmiles, Ravenclaw992, Serendipity's tears, RandomCitizen, happytide, TinkerbellxO, AnitaFajita, va va, Hypnotist, KatieMarrie, shamenteen, EmilyEverlasting, Crazyinabottle, HelloKeke, Rock the Rain, Leyshia Gisel, RedStarBloom, Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin, WrongRightBlackAndWhite, Guest, Otaku-neku, honeybeeze, Guest, CygnesMaudits, linnie kinda spinnie, pourquoibella, KinnerethKutie, ellenmae, iwishtheskywasgreen, ujemaima, Lexiful Sunshine, PurgatoryNymphe, Snowfire, readbycandlelight Lady Nerd, Fat Old Sun, elfenwinakachrno, Zetsubel, darkdeadmau5, Frenzy in Delirium, MissyChann, Lady Liesel, CC, Random Reviewer, gummi bear, Guest, GunzAblaze, ZombieOnTheMoon, sax97, JordanGoombette, graphtheartist, Anonymous, PsychoticallyInsaneForAReaso n, OrionRedde, nymerias, Guest, Snowfire11, manamikuran126, Lola93091, Nocturnal Rose, Mirror23Rose, LorienUrbani, SuzukaKimmiko, Guest, loki's valkyrie, Flourish'ed, rose, norcalpc, Lindsey, RachelLynnexx, Nebula, NightShade, Book of Belior, sgt pippa, XwitchlightX, **and **Abbie9413.**

I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to reply to your reviews, guys. I just finished an intensive summer course, and I'm pretty exhausted, but I wanted to get this next chapter out to you as soon as I could. Again, I'm sorry, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. :)

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Nineteen**

/

Calling my parents' house had been a really stupid mistake.

Obviously Dad called Amy, told him about the alarming phone call he'd gotten, and since they were in Metropolis and too far away to actually come looking for me, my phone had not stop ringing all night.

I knew I should have picked up, answered Amy and told her that I was fine, I'd just had a weird...moment, some strange emotional breakdown, I don't know. I knew she was going out of her mind over there, probably driving Matt crazy, coming up with speculations as to why I'd called Dad in the first place and why I wasn't answering her multitude of phone calls.

But I knew if I answered the phone, she would have demanded to come see me, or demanded that I go see her, even stay with them, and she wouldn't take no for an answer, and she wouldn't back down until she knew exactly what was going on.

I couldn't chance that. So I laid in bed staring out the window, watching the rain on the glass and listening to the phone ring, stroking Henry's fur as he laid curled up beside me like a big, hot water bottle. It was hard to know what to do with myself. It was my weekend off and while there were a few things I wanted to do, I just couldn't find the motivation or interest to get out of bed, so I laid there for a long, long time, watching the window until the rain stopped, listened to the phone ring until it stopped too.

I just...didn't know what to do.

I got up, eventually, when Henry started yowling at me for food. I fed him without bothering to look for something for...lunch, at that point, and instead went into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror and was greeted with a rather pathetic sight.

My pale face was stained with red from all the crying I'd been doing, and my eyes looked weary and sad and glassy as they stared back at me. Perfect finger-shaped bruises started to appear on my throat and of course at that point I couldn't look any longer.

The past twelve hours had been spent in recollection. What had happened yesterday? Furthermore, what had happened yesterday that made Jack erupt the way he did? He'd never put a hand on me, not before, save for that time he cuffed my cheek, after the whole incident with the goon, but other than that...it seemed like he always went out of his way to make sure he didn't touch me, _ever_. Even when I found the mirror for the first time, he was angry, sure, but he didn't actually put a hand on me. That's not to say I didn't think he would have, at the time, no, at the time he looked positively furious.

I sighed heavily and rubbed my face with both hands. It was so hard to know what to do or think. At points I thought that I was making way too big a deal out of it; Jack was a guest, and a _strange _guest, at that. It wasn't as if he was my boyfriend and he tried to strangle me, no, he was just some guy holed up in the shitty hotel I worked at, that was all, he could have come and gone at any time without a goodbye, without another fucking word, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I was beginning to think that was probably what he _did _do. Despite what he said to Estelle, he probably waited until I left, went back into the room, gathered up all his crap, and left. A funny feeling settled in my stomach when I thought about going into 310 at work on Monday and finding it empty, leaving behind a strange void of the man in there, like it was haunted.

I contemplated going back to bed. I was tired, I was pretty sure I could have slept for another twelve hours or so. But I also knew that I'd be mad at myself if I did. Sure it was good to catch up on your rest when you've been working none stop and you've got a couple of days off, but then I knew I'd just sleep away the weekend until I had to go back to work on Monday, and I didn't want that.

Then, as I looked at the bathtub, not a moment passed before I plugged the drain and started the bathwater. Sure it wasn't bath day, but _fuck it_. Sometimes a girl needed a bath and this was definitely one of those days.

I went into my bedroom to grab a hair tie and looked at my uniform sitting in a heap on the floor. I picked it up, knowing I didn't want to risk getting yelled at if it was dirty or wrinkled, and hung it up on the back of my door...but not before something came fluttering out from one of the pockets. Looking down at the carpet, I saw it was Lieutenant Gordon's card.

I stared at it for a long time, listening to the water fill the tub in the bathroom, and I picked the card up and stared at it closely for awhile. The card I hadn't given to Jack, like I promised I would.

And if he was gone...if he had left the hotel, then what would I tell Lieutenant Gordon? Would I spill everything, all my suspicions, every single one of my thoughts on the murder? How I figured Jack was probably the one who killed them, even though I didn't have any real proof, and any proof that might have shown he was the killer was now long gone? There'd be other ways of finding his DNA, I'm sure, but Jack struck me as someone who wouldn't be found if he didn't _want _to be found.

I sighed heavily and put the card down on my bedside table. I felt awful, like I'd screwed him over somehow. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was never totally convinced that I would give Jack the card and ask him to call Lieutenant Gordon with details on how he rescued me from the goon the night of the murder. I figured I would have just left it in his room so he could find it and throw it out, if need be.

I shook my head, feeling a headache coming on. There was no reason to protect the man. He may have rescued me the once, but he damn-neared strangled me, violent behaviour that could have made him an even stronger suspicion in the murders.

Something told me that I had to call Lieutenant Gordon and tell him what happened, that he would have wanted to hear it, that if anything, he would have hated that I had to keep all this to myself and pretend like I had to hide everything, especially since he'd been so kind to me. I knew I could talk to him, I could call him and we could sit down and I could just spill my guts, tell him every single thing that happened, right from the moment I first saw Jack, standing at the desk as I was leaving for the day.

But what would Lieutenant Gordon say when he saw the bruises lining my neck? I knew he wouldn't make me tell him, he wouldn't beat it out of me, but he'd be stern; if I told him who'd done it, he would have gone looking for Jack with more than just a few words about the night of the murder.

I padded into the bathroom, stopped the water in the bathtub and undressed, not bothering to tie up my hair. I stepped into the water, which was a touch too hot, but truthfully I don't think I even noticed. The phone had quieted...or maybe I'd tuned it out, like an annoying commercial, I wasn't sure which. Amy was probably driving Matt insane over at their apartment, freaking out about what Dad must have told her, freaking out over the fact she couldn't get ahold of me to make sure I hadn't...I dunno, slit my wrists or something.

I'd call her, call and tell her that I was fine, that I just had a moment of real...homesickness, because that's what it was, wasn't it? There was suddenly a great urge to be a child again, to leave all this adult behaviour and grown-up problems behind, forgotten, like some sort of bad dream, so that I could pick up and take off to Metropolis and settle down with my parents in the house I grew up in. They could tell me everything would be all right, that Gotham was just a cesspool filled with crazies, crazies who wore masks to hide their identity, or to make their identity, to show the world who they were, to hide behind their vigilant behaviour, keep the pain at bay, _breathe_, for all I knew...

I could tell them that Gotham wasn't like that, not all of it. But at that point it wouldn't even matter. I could curl up in bed and bid goodnight to my parents, standing in the doorway, blocking out the light from the hallway, and snuggle Henry under my arm until I fell asleep, listening to their voices as they went down the hall.

I rested back in the tub, covering my eyes with my arm, fighting the urge to sob. There was just no point in it anymore.

**/**

Monday came way sooner than I would have liked it to, naturally. When I came in the door I saw Martin reading the newspaper and I pulled the collar of my coat up a little more, walking towards the desk and smiling. "Morning, Martin."

He looked at me and his eyes lit up. "Good morning there, Jane."

"Um, Martin can I see the uh..." I cleared my throat a little. "The guest book?"

"Oh, uh, sure," he said, folding up his paper, setting it down, and bringing out the guest book. I took it in both hands and opened it up in a hurry, looking for the page where Martin marked down all our guests who had checked out...

But as I skimmed the very short list, I felt my heart drop into my stomach. No Jack Jay...I had thought for sure that he would have checked out, given that it had been a few days since the incident. But there was nothing to indicate that he had. I sighed heavily, feeling defeated, and closed up the book and slid it across the desk to Martin while giving him a very half-hearted smile. "Thanks, Martin."

I went around him into the break room, taking off my coat to hang it up, and sat down at the table, deliberating over what to do. I couldn't go into Jack's room, not if he was still in there. I was, without a doubt, the last person he'd want to see at that point, not to mention Estelle...oh god, Estelle...then there was _that _whole thing. Even if I was able to avoid her for the day, she'd be lumbering around, waiting to catch me alone so she could interrogate me, probably ask why Jack had said what he said, how he'd _known_, and that I had better keep my mouth shut if I wanted to keep my job, all that typical jazz...

But I couldn't help but think of how, after he'd confronted her about the embezzling, how she just laughed and walked away, like it was nothing. I knew she thought Jack and I were sleeping together, or having some sort of affair or relationship...though I wouldn't have called our acquaintance anything of the sort, especially not now.

I rubbed my face with my hand, exhausted; I'd slept too much over the weekend, a way of not facing what was going on, I guess. It was sometimes easier to just lie down and slip into unconsciousness for awhile, especially when you were so conflicted.

I got up to make coffee, filling up the pot, when suddenly I heard the door behind me open and close, and someone came shuffling in. Based on the noise, I could tell it was -

"Morning!" Polly chirped, sounding oddly chipper, and I looked at her over my shoulder, giving her just the tiniest smile. But then the light in her eyes faded, as did the rest of her expression. She stared at me with wide, shocked eyes. "You okay?"

I frowned at her, wondering why she would have thought that...but then I remembered that crying all weekend long had taken its toll on my physical appearance. When I'd left the house, I looked like a zombie, honest to god. I turned away, silently cursing that I hadn't taken the time to put on a little more makeup, make myself look a little more presentable. "I'm fine."

I prayed that she'd leave it alone, just silently _begged _her not to ask any more questions, but when I heard her come up behind me, I knew it was futile.

"You sure?" she asked with an inquisitive tone, placing her hand on my shoulder. I didn't look at her, I couldn't; if I turned my head even the slightest, she would have seen everything. "You look awfully pale..."

And then she paused, and I closed my eyes. I had tried to cover the bruises, really, I had, but they were difficult to conceal with the cheap foundation I had at home. She pulled on my shoulder, which surprised me, so I turned and came face to face with her, though she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes, wide and aghast, were on my neck.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

I turned away from her, shaking my head. "Nothing."

"Your neck's all bruised," she said, pulling on my shoulder again, and as my collar opened just a little, she gasped a little. "Jesus, Jane, these look like fingers!"

"I said it's _nothing_, Polly," I pulled my shoulder from her grip, a little harsher than I liked, but I was starting to feel very uncomfortable. It was humiliating having to go around with someone's fingers bruised into your neck to begin with, but how would I go about explaining how they got there in the first place.

I diligently went about making coffee, hoping Polly would see I didn't want to talk about it and go and sit down, or go start her shift, _anything _except stand there the way she was, just staring at me, with that look in her eyes like her heart had just been broken a thousand times over. When I turned on the button on the coffee maker to start the coffee, I stood there with my palms flat on the counter, not looking at her, but I could feel her upset radiating off her.

"Bullshit it's nothing," she breathed after a moment, sounding hurt and confused. "Who the fuck put their hands on you like that?"

"Like what?" came Lois's voice as she came charging into the break room, and as Polly and I turned to look at her, Lois's eyes fell from my face to my neck, and her tattooed eyebrows shot up. "Oh...looks similar to a phase I enjoyed a long time ago, y'know, being asphyxiated before climaxing."

I scoffed a little in my throat, pressing a hand to my face. If only.

Polly, on the other hand, scowled tightly and put one foot forward. "Piss off, Lois, can't you see she's hurt?"

Lois smirked as she unraveled the scarf she had tied around her beehive. "Yeah, and who'd you think did it?"

I snapped my attention to her, and she had this nasty little grin on her pink painted lips, playing in her eyes, like the wicked stepsister screwing everything up for Cinderella. As she took off her raincoat, she looked between the two of us with that cat-like nastiness. "Somebody else we know with a bit of a..._fixation _on self-mutilation."

I couldn't help the little laugh of true disbelief that fell from my lips at that moment. She looked at me with that grin and I just shook my head at her, ready to burst into tears. "God, you bitch..."

At my side, Polly looked at me, and though I wasn't looking at her, I could tell her eyes were wide with question. "What is she talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Lois asked, setting down her purse on the table, continuing to grin despite the fact I was giving her a glare so ugly she should have rightfully combusted right about then. She turned her eyes to Polly. "Why d'you think she spends so much time in his room?"

I wanted to step forward and pull on her hair and rip it out of her head. I wanted to break the coffeepot and shove the glass shards in her heavily made-up eyes. I wanted to scream in her face at the top of my lungs until her ears started to bleed. How _dare _she? How _fucking __**dare **_she?!

Instead I looked over at Polly, who was giving me a look so heavy and shocked that it melted away all my anger and just made me feel humiliated all over again. I shook my head at her. "Polly, it isn't true."

"Oh no?" Lois asked, her voice piquing with interest, and I would have sold my soul to the devil himself at that moment just to have her piss off. I looked at her, just as she pointed one of her long, pink fingernails towards my neck. "I suppose you gave yourself those bruises, hmm?"

My hands at my sides curled into tight, white-knuckled fists, and I clenched down on my teeth so hard my jaw started to hurt.

But my anger only seemed to delight Lois. As she closed the drawer where she put her lunch and turned to leave the break room, she grinned at me a last time. "The maid and the freak, what a cute pair you make."

And then she was gone.

I stared at the doorway where she disappeared and shook my head, so angry I couldn't even think of what to do. I knew it was her way of getting back at me for the day she'd asked for soap, the day that Jack had scared her. I knew she had jumped to a conclusion that day, that Jack and I were obviously sleeping together, an idea that was probably only too enforced by Estelle. And now, now that she'd seen how he put his hands on me, there was her power again, and the laughter in her eyes, like I deserved it. Like I played with fire and got burnt and she was only too thrilled to see it happen to me after what had happened the night she asked for soap.

Polly at my side was deathly silent, and as I leaned back against the counter and looked at her, she looked about ready to burst into tears, her great big brown eyes all shiny and her pink lips turned down in a severe frown. But there was something else in her gaze; empathy, definitely, and I would have expected no less from her, sweetheart that she was. But there was something else, something a little more...wary, like she wanted to trust me but there was obviously something very fishy about the whole situation.

Either way, I sighed heavily and shook my head. "Polly, don't look at me like that, it isn't true."

I watched her swallow, and her eyes flickered down to the bruises once more. "...Did he do that to you?"

I sighed and turned around to grab two coffee mugs out of the cupboard, setting them down and slowly pouring coffee. What on earth would I tell her? She deserved the truth and nothing but the truth, but how could I tell her? How could I go about telling her about everything that had happened in 310 that led up to what had happened? There was no easy way to explain it, it was all or nothing, and at that moment, I just couldn't do it all.

"Polly-"

Suddenly, the door to Mr. Halterstead's office opened, and when we both turned to look to see who it was, Estelle stood in the doorway, staring at us like she'd caught us stealing the coffee supplies out of the cupboard.

"What's going on in here, a conference?" She demanded, frowning, and damn-near slammed the door to Mr. Halterstead's office behind her. "Get to work."

I was about to take my coffee and go, without another word, keep my head down so Estelle and I wouldn't make eye contact. If I had gotten out of there without drawing any more attention to the bruises, it would have been too good to be true.

"Estelle, Jane's hurt," Polly insisted, and though I wanted to snap at her and tell her to shut up, there was something so sincere about her tone that I quickly quieted, stealing a glance at Estelle who looked at me suspiciously. "I think she should go to the hospital."

Before I could silence Polly, Estelle came right up to me, and she caught sight of the bruises before I could even turn away and hide them. She stopped right in front of me, her eyes narrowed to my neck, and something in her expression lifted a little, the severity of her annoyance suddenly graced with a bit of...relief? Or something not unlike.

After a moment, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Hmm...will you look at that."

The very last thing I needed, and I do mean the _very _last thing, was for Estelle to know that Jack had tried to strangle me, and though I hadn't said a word, and there wasn't any way Lois could have gone gossiping to her, I could see the conclusion she drew as she lifted her eyes to mine. Though her lips did nothing, her eyes were smiling gleefully.

I stared at her, tightlipped. I knew what she was thinking. If she was embezzling, which there was no doubt in my mind that she was, there was little I could do to prove it. I had no power over her, and suddenly she was given all the power over me. The man who'd stood up for me against her had also tried to strangle me, and I could see by the light in her eyes that she wanted to fucking _laugh _right in my face.

But, she kept a serious demeanour and stared at me seriously. "Do you need to go home, Jane?"

If I could have, I would have walked past her, out the front door to the Palace, and never looked back. Not once. I would have gone home, packed up my stuff and my cat, and gone to Amy's. She would have put me up, newlywed as she was, until I could get back on my feet.

I took in a deep breath and let it out sharply through my nostrils. I would have given anything, _anything, _to slap her across the face at that moment. "...No, I'm fine."

Instantly I felt Polly's hand on my shoulder, pulling on me almost angrily, as if she knew that I knew I had to seek medical attention and yet was just fobbing it off like it was nothing. "Jane-"

Estelle, who's lips betrayed her in a little smile, suddenly turned to Polly and sneered a little, her nose curling, her voice getting sharp. "She says she's fine, Polly. Leave off, get to work."

And with that, we both watched as Estelle waddled her way out of the break room.

I could feel Polly's eyes on me and I knew she would demand to know why I wouldn't want to go to the hospital, or the doctor, at the very least, to have the bruises checked out. But what good would it have done? They would have wanted to know who'd done it, and I knew I wouldn't have told them. And if I had, what would they have done? Gone to Jack and presented him with charges? Then he'd probably do a lot _worse _than try to strangle me.

No, I knew there was nothing to come of drawing more attention to what had happened then there already was. Now Lois was absolutely convinced that Jack and I were entangled in some sort of sick sadomasochist relationship, and Estelle knew that my knight in shining armor was really no knight at all.

I looked over at Polly, and she stared at me with this strange look on her face, this weird uncertainty in her eyes. Almost as if I was someone she didn't recognize anymore. She was frowning sadly, looking like she was about to cry, but her eyes narrowed to me like I was an impostor, like I had outright lied about something very crucial.

But in a way, I had, hadn't I?

There was no way I could explain it, so I didn't try to, and my voice didn't sound convincing in the least. "I'm fine, Polly. I swear, I'm okay."

Polly nodded, understanding that there was nothing more I would say on the matter, but she went tightlipped, as though she was dying to say something but wouldn't dare, and then without another word or glance, she left the break room very quickly. I could tell by the force of her strides that she was very upset, angry even, and it made me sigh heavily and lean back against the counter, the coffee in my mug cooling and forgotten.

/


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **A million thank yous to **Nocturnal Rose, Miss Tie, corbsxx, SepiaDreams, Guest, Ravenclaw992, EmmberlyneRiddle, samiantha, StargazingED, Lady Nerd, KorroksApostle, Zeny, Flourish'ed, Crazyinabottle, Sugary Snicket, LadyBonBon, CC, ellenmae, Leyshla Gisel, Lutricity, EmilyEverlasting, queenofthecards, iwishtheskywasgreen, linalove, Nebula, Arizo, Smoothie Connoisseur, CrystalSearcher, Serendipity's tears, vickielee, JordanGoombette, TinkerbellxO, Fat Old Sun, Cloudy Momochi, HelloKeke, Va Va, pourquoibella, WebOfSmiles, Wolf, Lady Liesel, Lordoftheringschick2000, Imogen-xox, Dae Mariutza, NightShade, Lexiful Sunshine, cypris88, Lauren Kassidy, harleyquintessential, lovejackoconnell, moonofglass, UrieNanashi, Caty14, AmazonaV, CeliaSingsSongs, ujemaima, S.S, Guest, KrnYong, allthelovers, Lamen325, Uhhh, TheAravis, KristiCroz, EvenIfSheFalls, **and **In The Shitty Land of Oz. **Once again, I know I didn't respond to all of your reviews for the last chapter, and I'm sorry guys, I really am; fall semester started and things just got right up on top of me. :(

This chapter is dedicated to **happytide **for being an incredible never-ending source of support and inspiration. Thank you, **happytide**. :)

Things are winding down fast, my friends. I'd like to apologize in advance for what may be a long wait between these last few updates; just know it's because I want to make sure to get everything just right.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twenty**

**/**

The next two days were spent in damn-near total silence; no one said a word. It was surreal.

I figured Estelle would have made some comment about how much extra everything I seemed to be carting around, but she didn't. In fact, I hardly saw her after the whole episode in the break room. Part of me figured she was just avoiding me altogether because Jack had had the nerve to call her out in front of me. But then I decided that she had probably holed herself up in Mr. Halterstead's office, trying to figure out how to prove that she wasn't embezzling. Lois didn't say a word to me, but I barely saw her. Sometimes I'd see her in passing in the break room, and she'd give me a nasty little grin, but I'd never dignify it with a response. Polly just avoided me altogether. Even Martin seemed oddly quiet and uncomfortable whenever I stopped to talk to him, and especially when I asked to see the books in the morning before I started work. The girls must have filled him in on what had happened. Either that or he had seen the bruises himself and come to his own conclusions.

And I didn't hear a word from Jack, and frankly, I didn't want to. I got a real strange and ugly feeling in my chest whenever I thought about him, whenever I went to work and thought _well, is today the day I go back into 310? _and of course, it never was. I figured, if I left him alone, maybe after awhile he'd come looking for me, say something to me, or better yet, maybe he'd just check out and be done with the Palace once and for all, once he figured out I wasn't going back into his room. Not after what happened.

But then at the same time I felt guilty, guilty that I was neglecting the room. It wasn't the _room's _fault, after all.

Three days passed. I thought about how the towels were probably getting mildewy in 310's bathroom, and how the sheets were probably in desperate need of a wash. Several times I thought about hiding out in the maintenance closet and waiting until he left the room so I could just quickly go in and change things around...but that gave me pause. We obviously weren't on good terms anymore, and he obviously didn't want me in his room anymore; how'd he feel if he came back from one of his days away from the Palace to find the room in better order than he'd left it? What would he _do_? He'd be furious, I was sure of it...maybe he'd even come looking for me.

The whole situation was just shit, and each morning I found it harder and harder to get up out of bed and make the journey across the Narrows to the hotel. More and more I thought about calling Amy and asking if I could come stay with her and Matt, even if it was just for a day or so, just to get the hell away from everything. I knew she'd put me up without a moment's hesitation, but the aspect of having to explain to her everything that happened...especially the fact that I had _lied _to her both about living in the Narrows and where I was working...in a sense, it really wasn't worth it.

And so the days dragged, and I just sank into deep depression.

On the third day of going about my job with barely a word to anyone, I was gathering up my stuff to leave for the day, turned around, and came face to face with Polly. She scared the shit out of me; I hadn't even heard her come in, and she just stood there in front of me looking severe with her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

"Polly, hey," I breathed, trying not to let her see how she'd totally scared the shit out of me.

"You done for the day?" she asked, and I was surprised at the curtness in her voice, but it matched her frown nicely.

"Yeah," I replied, eyeing her suspiciously, taking my coat off the coat hanger. It was the first time we'd spoken since the day she discovered the bruises. I didn't really know what to say to her. "...Something wrong?"

She shook her head, her red ponytail flipping back and forth, regarding me just as severely. "Listen, why don't we go for a drink? I have to talk to you."

I held my coat gingerly in my hands, looking into her brown eyes, as a wave of panic flooded over me. It'd been a couple of days since we last spoke, since the day she'd seen the bruises on my neck, and I could tell by the heavy look she was giving me that she was upset about it. I cleared my throat as I put on my coat and nodded to her. "Okay."

We left the Palace just as the Narrows were getting dark, walking along the wet streets while taxis and cop cars and other vehicles zoomed past us, keeping our heads down when we passed the hookers who were on their way to the corners for the evening. Nothing was said as we made our way the few blocks away from the Palace towards the Black Canary, the closest pub that I usually made a point of _not _frequenting, but for whatever reason, a pub housing undesirables and possible escaped convicts made me feel relatively calm compared to whatever Polly wanted to talk about.

As we walked inside, we drew the attention of almost everyone in the bar, from the grubby bartender munching on a cigar as he cleaned a glass, to the biker types who'd taken up their pool cues in the back corner, surrounded by smoky light. I swallowed nervously and kept my head down as we went inside and sat down at a vacant table for two close to the bar. Polly sat down across from me with a void expression on her face, looking fearless and almost bored as she took off her coat and draped it across the back of her chair. I wanted to do the same, but I was still wearing my uniform, and I didn't like the idea of everyone around us seeing that we were maids...for whatever reason.

A waitress came by, a scrawny woman probably in her late 30s with bleached blonde hair and heavy dark circles under her eyes, popping gum as she looked down at us. "What'll it be, ladies?"

Polly swiped at her bangs with her fingers idly, not looking up at her. "Beer, please."

The waitress looked over at me, expectedly, and I cleared my throat nervously. "Um...a cup of tea, please."

Her gum popped loudly. "What kind?"

I shook my head. What difference did it make? "Just whatever you've got."

Without another word she wandered away from our table and I watched her go up to the bar, speaking lowly to the bartender who promptly ignored her. I sighed and and hugged myself into my coat, feeling out of place and vulnerable.

Polly sighed heavily across from me, cradling the side of her face in her hand, and after a moment of silence passed between us and all we could listen to was the low hum of conversation around us, she finally looked up at me with her big brown eyes full of concern. "Jane, what's going on?"

I leaned back in my chair and looked down at my hands as I picked at my fingernails. I knew it was coming, I probably should have thought about what I was going to say. I didn't want to lie to her, not when she was probably the only friend I had at that moment, at work or anywhere else. I sighed heavily and rubbed my face with my hand, knowing that she was watching me, just patiently waiting for me to say something.

"What do you want to know?" I asked her, quietly, after what seemed like a long time of saying nothing.

"Well, first off...who _is _he?"

That question caught me off guard, and I'm not totally sure why. I looked at her, at the concerned expression on her face, and I opened my mouth to ask what she meant exactly, but before I could, she stopped me. "I mean, everyone in the hotel's talking about him and how you and him are like...well, I dunno..."

I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, letting the exasperation wash over me. I don't know why I was surprised; the rumors flying around were pretty obvious. "We're not sleeping together, if that's what you've heard."

She sighed heavily and shook her head a little, as if the conversation was already going in a direction she hadn't wanted, but at the same time I could see the blatant relief on her face. "Jane, I want you to know I _never _thought-"

"It's okay, I know you didn't," I interrupted her. I'd never suspected her of spreading rumors, it wasn't in her nature; it was so much more fitting of either Estelle or Lois, and twice as likely that it _was _Estelle or Lois given what had happened in the past few week.

She seemed even more relieved to hear me say it, so much so that she sat back in her chair, and at that moment the waitress came by with our drinks and set them down gingerly in front of us before wandering off. I looked at the tea she'd brought me, at the cup that looked suspiciously clean for such a sketchy place, and with an absent mind, I took the teabag's string and let the water steep while across the table Polly sipped her beer cautiously.

"So..." she began after a moment. "Who is he then?"

I stared down into my tea, watching it turn grey. I had no idea what kind it was and didn't really care. I shrugged. "He's just a...just a guest, y'know? He was always in there when I went to clean the room and we just...started talking."

I looked at her and she seemed to be taking all this information in as if she was listening to the confessions of a serial killer. "...He gave you those bruises, didn't he?"

It wasn't even a question; I could tell by the tone in her voice that she knew and didn't need my affirmation. I could only imagine what she and Lois had talked about behind my back about the bruises. I nodded without a moment's hesitation, ashamed that I'd lied to her that day in the break room, when the truth was so obvious.

"...It isn't like that, y'know," I told her, my voice sounding feeble and unconvincing.

She leaned forward and pressed her palm against her forehead, as if she simply couldn't believe something. "Jane, why are you protecting him?"

I sighed, not looking at her. "It's so hard to explain, Polly, you wouldn't understand-"

"Well, _help _me understand," she said, imploringly, her voice raising just a little, out of frustration or upset, I couldn't tell which, but when I looked at her she looked as though she were about to burst into tears. "Jane, I'm your friend, and this man tried to _strangle _you!"

"Shh!" I shushed her, and looked around the bar to make sure no one had heard us, but it seemed as if they hadn't. Nobody was looking in our direction.

"Look," I told her, keeping my voice low. "I don't know how to explain any of this without seeming totally _crazy_-"

"Well just go slowly," she implored me. The tone in her voice was starting to make my heart break. "Just walk me through it, I've got all night."

I closed my eyes and covered them with my hand. I had the utmost urge to cry right then, and I didn't know why, really. I didn't want to walk her through it, not the whole ordeal. I didn't want her to know that I strongly suspected Jack was responsible for the murders of the Falcone goon and the hooker, and that he'd saved me from the goon that night just to turn around and try to strangle me. None of it made any sense, and if it didn't make any sense to me, just how crazy would it sound if I tried explaining it to someone else? Someone who hadn't been in 310 when Jack was there, hadn't made him growl or grumble or smile or laugh.

Polly sighed so heavily, I thought she was going to get up and walk out on me. But she didn't. She looked genuinely conflicted; she didn't know what to say or do, almost as if she understood that this whole thing was far too complicated to try explaining, or maybe she was contemplating whether or not this was any of her business, really.

But I knew as I looked at her that I owed her something. She was my friend, she was a _good _friend; she was the only one in the hotel (save for Martin) who had an idea of what was going on and didn't judge me the way the other women had. She'd been the one to go out of her way and reach out to me, try to get me to confide in her when it was so obvious I needed someone to confide in. I owed her as best an explanation I could give.

"Polly," I told her in as strong a voice as I could muster. "You weren't there. When he...strangled me, he didn't want to strangle _me_. Estelle had come into his room, she was trespassing."

Polly frowned at me. "Trespassing? Jane, she's the housekeeper-"

"He's not used to her!" I insisted.

"_Used _to her?" Polly gaped at me. "Jane, the man's a guest in a _hotel_, he's not a...wild animal in a cage at the zoo!"

I laughed a little in disbelief. Actually, he was _very much _like a wild animal in a cage at the zoo, now that I thought about it. "Well, he's a very private person. He didn't like it at all when I went into his room to clean, it took him awhile to get used to me-"

"He's in a _fucking __**hotel**_," she said, and I could really hear the disbelief in her voice at that point. She couldn't grasp any of it, which meant I must have been explaining it poorly. "We go in there to clean the rooms, the housekeeper goes in there to check things out, that's what happens in a hotel! That's our job!"

"Polly," I snapped at her under my breath, and she pressed her lips together. "I'm just trying to tell you what I _know_. I can't explain him any more than what I know. Look, I don't know why he's at the hotel, I don't know why he doesn't seem to grasp the fact that there'd be people coming into his room to clean it, okay? I really don't!"

She stared at me, taking everything in without interrupting, which I really appreciated, and suddenly I felt bad that I'd been short with her. I sighed and quieted a little. "All I know is that he got used to me after awhile. He...talked to me."

And then suddenly I laughed a little in disbelief and looked away as I confessed the one thing that had been festering inside my head ever since he'd tried to strangle me. "Jesus, Polly, he savedmy _life_, y'know?"

A solid tension settled nicely between us, and suddenly I realized that I'd never told her what happened. She _didn't _know_. _When I looked over at her, her eyes were wide and questioning.

"What are you talking about?" she breathed in disbelief.

I swallowed, and chastised myself for dropping the ball so callously. This confession was only going to lead to a much more heated discussion with plenty more questions, I could tell, but maybe if I told her the truth, she'd start to see that Jack wasn't really as bad as she thought he was. Staring down at my teacup, I took it in one hand and sipped earnestly, trying to buy myself some time. Polly just stared at me, waiting anxiously for me to speak.

I sat forward so we could keep the next bit of conversation quiet and between us; I twiddled my thumbs and tried to think of a delicate way to start reliving the memory that haunted me a little too often. "The night of the murders, I brought the guy an ashtray and some shampoo bottles...and he grabbed me and tried to pull me into the room. I...I don't know what he would have done, exactly, but..." I looked at her, at her big eyes full of fear, fear on my behalf. "But I knew it wouldn't have been...well, y'know."

I rubbed the back of my neck while Polly remained quiet, just patiently waiting for me to continue. "Jack came out of his room and...saved me. He...pulled a knife on the goon, and I know how that sounds, Polly, believe me...but the goon went back into his room and, well..."

"Jane," she breathed suddenly, and I looked up at her. Her face was white as a sheet. "Jane, did he kill those people?"

I stared back at her, wondering how she could have so suddenly deduced that he killed the goon and the hooker after I'd been trying to tell her how Jack had saved my life that night. But I guess it just seemed far too coincidental, pulling a knife on the goon, thwarting his attempt to do whatever to the maid the same night he and his hooker companion are brutally murdered. I didn't want to tell her my suspicions, about how I'd found the washcloth and the cut on his hand and all the other signs.

I rested my chin on my fist and shook my head at her. Sure, I had my suspicions, but I didn't know for sure. In many ways, I didn't want to know for sure.

"I don't know, Polly."

It seemed to get very quiet in that bar right then, as if all spectators surrounding us had been secretly listening to our conversation, and now that we'd quieted, they didn't want to make it look like they'd been listening. Polly crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at the table, looking tired and defeated.

I knew I had to say something to make things better, put her mind to rest or something. She was white as a ghost. "I haven't spoken to him since...it happened."

"Well I hope not," she replied quickly, turning her brown eyes up at me. They were filled with hurt and...mistrust, and that's what got to me the most. "I hope you never speak to him again, after what he did to you. Is he even still at the hotel?"

I shrugged, running my fingertips along the rim of my teacup, not looking at her. "He hasn't checked out, so far as the books go. Martin hasn't seen him, so I have to assume he's still up there."

Then, I thought of something that would definitely interest her, and suddenly I was couldn't wait to tell her. I leaned a little closer to her in my chair, watching as she squinted her eyes at me, somewhat suspiciously. "Jack thinks that Estelle's been embezzling money from the hotel, and that that's why there's no shampoo or soap."

I expected her eyes to widen and for her to go back to her cheery self, delighted to change the subject and indulge in a little workplace gossip, but she just sat there and stared at me, unmoving, not chancing at all, and I sat back in surprise, watching her eyes as they watched me.

"I don't give a shit what he thinks," she said, matter of fact.

I watched her, and then I nodded. I'd lost.

Polly sighed heavily and rubbed her face with her long white fingers and I once again looked down into my teacup, feeling embarrassed and depressed. I didn't know where the conversation could possibly have gone from there, it seemed she didn't want to hear any more of my side of things.

"I just..." Polly began, and then she stopped herself, as if she was afraid she was going to say something too hurtful. "I just think you should...go to the police. You can't let him get away with this."

I kept my head down. I didn't know what to say or do at that point. My head was just totally muffled and confused and I couldn't even put whole thoughts together. I was tired, and I had a ways to go before I got home. But I knew deep inside that I just didn't want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to go home, feed my cat, go to bed, and forget any of it had ever happened, just for tonight.

I could feel the real disappointment seep into the air between us. Polly had wanted to hear me agree with her, tell her that I was going to go to the police, that I was going to report this. But as the moments passed and she realized I wasn't going to say anything more, the frown on her pink lips deepened, and her eyes just became sad and annoyed all at the same time. And I couldn't blame her for it.

Then, she sighed through her nostrils, and collected her coat from the back of her chair. She'd barely touched the beer in front of her. I felt wretched, and I reached across the table to implore her to stay. I didn't want her to storm out, not feeling the way she was. There had to be something I could say or do to make things better, if only for the night, even if I didn't know what it was. "Polly-"

"Y'know what I don't understand," she said as she turned to me, and her eyes were fierce and unforgiving. "When we first met, you told me that you never wanted to be in _this _situation _ever again_!"

I froze, because I felt as though she'd just slapped me clear across the face.

She threw up one hand as if to say _what the fuck_, her nose curling in disgust but there were unshed tears brimming in her big eyes. "But look at you. You're right back where you were!"

I gaped at her, caught completely off guard, totally speechless for a moment. I'd never thought...never thought she'd bring that up. Not now.

She hurriedly began to put on her coat, and I stared at her, feeling more hurt than I ever remember being. I didn't want her to leave, but...at the same time, I couldn't believe what she'd just said. "Polly, this is _nothing_ like that."

She turned her eyes to me and they were dark with anger, anger and...what seemed like pity. "You sure about that, Jane?"

There was such ugliness in her voice...ugliness like I've never heard before, and it broke my heart. Tears began to pinch at my eyes right then and I turned them down to the table, not able to look at her, not at that moment. I could sense her standing there for a few moments, as if wondering if there was something else that needed to be said, but the damage was done, and she knew it. She didn't stay much longer, and I didn't try to stop her from leaving. I didn't even watch her go.

I pressed my palm to my eyes in a desperate attempt to keep from bursting into tears but _fuck_ I wanted to cry. I wanted to have a good, hard cry, it would have been therapeutic, I was sure of it, but it was so useless, it was so _fucking _useless!

The bar went eerily quiet then; it seemed I could hear everything the two guys playing pool in the corner were saying. I know they'd been watching us, wondering what the hell we must have been arguing about. When I looked up, with my eyes stinging, I noticed how the waitress was hanging off the bar, watching me, and turned her eyes away quickly to make it look like she hadn't been. The bartender turned his back on me, trying to look busy. I sniffed miserably and rubbed my face with one hand, feeling meek and vulnerable sitting there by myself in the middle of that seedy club.

They'd abandoned me...each and every one of them. I'd lost favour with Estelle long ago, that was a given, but Lois and I had never been on bad terms until...until things started happening at the Palace. And now Polly...she'd only been trying to help, I knew that..and now she was gone too.

I was alone...I was _so __**alone**_.

And then someone sat down in Polly's chair.

I didn't look up right away; I figured Polly had come back. She was too nice a person to leave things in the fucked up state they were in. She wanted to make amends, I knew it, I just had to work up the courage to actually look her in the eye.

A moment or two passed, and she was silent, so I wiped away the wetness under my eyes and looked up, sniffing, hugging myself for comfort -

- When all of a sudden my heart just _stopped_.

Jack.

Jack sat in Polly's chair, with a beer bottle on the table in front of him, and he leaned forward. From the low light in the bar, I could see a strange gleam in his brown eyes, something almost like...shyness. I sat there, stupefied, as Jack sighed a little through his teeth, and gave me a smile: a very sheepish, yellow-toothed smile.

"H_iii_."

/


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **Chapter 19 received the most reviews yet of any chapter in this story. While I am incredibly grateful, I'll admit it is making me very nervous because I don't know how you guys will react to what's coming. Thank you so, so much for your incredible reviews **Hypnotist, Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, UrieNanashi, linalove, Lady Liesel, WrongRightBlackAndWhite, golden peaches, JordanGoombette, queenofthecards, RandomCitizen, Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin, SepiaDreams, Serendipity's tears, thumbelinarocks, KrysOfSorrow, Misplaced Levity, kittykat6625, trickstersink, KatieMarrie, Rayzen, valkyriegorbash, walawalabadkoala, LadyBonBon, PsychoticallyInsaneForAReaso n, KorroksApostle, ZombiePeach, Sugary Snicket, Lady Nerd, corbsxx, In The Shitty Land Of Oz, Kyrie Twilight, ZenyZootSuit, Leyshla Gisel, Loukia, Comidia Del Arte, Nocturnal Rose, SaxonBandwagon, RedStarBloom, CrystalSearcher, PoisonedAngelous, Ravenclaw992, EmmberlyneRiddle, cypris88, pourqouibella, Zeroko, iwishtheskywasgreen, KrnYong, Lexiful Sunshine, Rehaniah, EmilyEverlasting, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, HelloKeke, The Wicked Siren, Trillen17, samiantha, Rapunzel, TinkerbellxO, vickielee, mercuryxx, happytide, Vice or Virtue, obsessivesyndrome, Green Animelover, Otaku-neku, OMhypothesis, va va, GalanthaDreams, AmberCyn, Amanda, boca3, tomieharley, manamikuran126, Nitor, TC Stark, AmazonaV, Crimsin Butterfly, tiibouchina, FoxFire45, L van Am, soupkitchen, asdfghjkl, filthe, Luna-Rose 22, Roze, Blairx6661, slytherin-until-i-die, Guest, ShizukaRen-Hime, StargazingED, and SammiRichGurl. **

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a very Happy New Year! :D

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twenty**

**/**

I sat back in my chair, slowly taking my hands off the table, regarding him carefully but also keeping my eyes on the door, in case I had to make a quick getaway. I didn't think he'd try anything with so many people around, but then again, this man didn't seem to care who was watching him or what they'd think about anything he did.

"What are you doing here?" I asked carefully and quietly, trying not to sound alarmed despite the fact that I was, I _was_.

Jack sipped from his bottle while giving me this totally indignant look, and when he swallowed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, he looked at me as though I was quite literally the stupidest person he'd ever met.

"I'm surfing," he drawled, exasperated. "What gave it away?"

I could feel the scowl harden on my forehead. It'd been a real _bad_ day, I really wasn't in the mood to be made fun of. "I mean...did you follow us here?"

"Who, you and your red-haired friend?" Jack thumbed towards the door, and then he took a moment to swivel in his chair and look over his shoulder towards the door, as though worried she was standing there and had heard him. I stared at him, unbelieving, until he turned back around to face me in his chair and rose his eyebrows at me. "She sure left here in a huff."

I sat there and stared at him with what was probably a pretty upset look on my face. I could tell because the waitress was standing over by the bar looking at me as though I had started undressing right there at the table. I sat as far back in my chair as I could, trying not to let on how uncomfortable I was, but I obviously wasn't doing a very good job of it. Jack stared at me with his dead eyes, taking swigs of beer from his bottle, and I watched how his expression twitched the more he watched me, how his eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled just a little. A few times I stole glances at the door, wishing I could just get up and leave without the risk of him following me out; I won't lie, I would have stormed out if I wasn't scared to death that he _would _follow me out and do god knows what. He'd sat himself down, there was obviously something he wanted to say.

"You gonna say something, buttercup," he asked rather bluntly, the tone in his voice annoyed or indignant, I'm not positive which. "or are you just gonna gawk at me?"

I swallowed tightly and crossed my arms over my chest, staring at him and trying not to let my scowl fade. He needed to know exactly how I was feeling. "I want to know why you're here."

Jack gave me a sideways glance, making me feel small and stupid, and he sighed heavily through his flared nostrils. "Well...you haven't been by the room, and my sheets sure could go for a change."

I felt rage bubble up in my stomach, and I curled my hands into fists, feeling my fingernails bite into my skin. I could feel the blood flush my face and suddenly I felt hot with anger.

But Jack just shrugged, and put up his hands as if to say _what are you gonna do? _"You know how messy I am."

That was it, it was enough. I could yell at him, I could snap at him, what good would it do? The best I _could _do was just get the hell away from him. Without another word, I gathered my jacket from the chair and reached for my purse, standing up so quickly that my leg knocked the table, nearly sending our drinks crashing to the floor. I didn't meet his eye. "Good_bye_, Jack."

But before I could make my getaway, make for the door and take off for home, where I'd be safe and sound all tucked up in bed, Jack's arm lashed out, quick as lightning, and his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"_Hold __**on,**_**" **he said, seriously.

I froze and stared down at him, at his hand gripping me, not too tightly, but securely enough, and when I looked to meet his eyes, he wouldn't look at me. "Hold on, hold on, hold on, _hold on, __**hold**__**on**_..."

He pulled on my wrist and motioned with a nod of his head for me to take my seat at the table, and I did, hesitantly, keeping my other arm wrapped securely in my coat, painfully clutching my purse, and when I finally sat down, Jack didn't remove his hand from my wrist, but he wasn't gripping it, either. He simply cradled it, as if we were two lovers having a serious sad conversation over drinks, and I looked at my thin, pale wrist encased in his long, callused fingers, grimy in the nails, with strength that could break my wrist easily, I was sure. His rough fingertips gently touched my skin, as though trying to coax me from getting up again, as though to convince me he wasn't angry. He just wanted to talk.

I stared at my wrist in his hand for a long time, and when I finally looked up to get a glimpse of his eyes, to try to get a read of his expression, he was looking down at the tabletop.

"Alright, that was a bad joke," he began, lowly, scratching the back of his neck, adjusting his collar, looking anywhere but directly _at _me. "My jokes are bad."

I stared at him, blinking, and looking up I could see the bartender was looking at us over his shoulder with a rather perplexed look on his face, as though contemplating whether or not to reach for the shotgun under the bar, if there was one, or call on the bikers playing pool in the corner for backup in case the patron with the messed-up face started to get violent. I swallowed and watched Jack, watched how he kept his head down, as if he was trying to gauge the energy in the room. I looked down at his hand cradling my wrist, and after a moment I gently, _gently, _pulled my hand out of his, let my fingers just brush his, and then I let it settle in my lap. I was upset, I was _really _upset, but again, there was obviously something he wanted to say.

Jack sighed lowly, looking at the table, looking over his shoulder, and then finally leaning close enough so that he could speak just barely above a whisper and I could still hear him. "So listen, I lost my temper, nobody knows that more than me-"

I gaped at him, feeling my jaw drop right open. "Lost your-"

I sat back and then leaned forward, watching the light in his eyes change as he watched me with a confused expression on his features. I didn't know what to do with myself at that moment, and obviously it showed. For a second time, I wanted to get up and storm right out, but I was afraid he would follow me. I wanted to yell and scream in his face, but I was worried about...about making a scene. Jack stared at me so intently that I willed myself to keep quiet and keep my cool.

Finally I resolved to lean forward, so my panicked words, whatever they might have been, would be between the two of us. And despite the very real fear I was feeling at that moment, I couldn't help the anger as it seeped into my voice. "Jack, are you _crazy_?"

Jack sipped from his beer bottle and once again looked around him, and if to make sure there weren't any witnesses to what I was about to say next. "You _threw_ me against a wall and tried to _**strangle**_ me!"

"Well y'know it's always gonna sound twice as bad if you say it like that," Jack said in that strange sing-song way of his, and I scoffed at him and crossed my arms over my chest. Then, he sat forward, setting his elbows on the table, and his eyes glittered with laughter, though his lips didn't really break into a smile the way I thought they would.

"Besides, your boss, she's got a thick neck," he said, surprising me, and he swiped at his scars with his tongue, making my nose curl a little, and he held out both his hands as if to show how he would have strangled Estelle if he could have, though when it was obvious that the invisible neck he had his hands around at that moment was too large, he giggled a little. "Couldn't close both my hands around her if I tried."

I frowned, glaring at him as hard as I could. I couldn't believe he was making such a light-hearted joke about something so morbid...though truthfully I have no idea why anything he did surprised me anymore. All I knew was that if he was trying to make me smile, if he was trying to make me feel better, it wasn't working at all. I just continued to stare at him, angrily. "So it was just more convenient to strangle me?"

The weirdest fucking thing happened then. Jack stared at me, with his big dark eyes, and a great big smile burst over his ruin lips. He grinned at me, and for the first time I really got a look at his stained teeth, made me stomach turn a little, but it was a _real_ smile, a delighted smile, and he chuckled in his throat, that strange, creepy little chuckle that I won't deny I kinda liked, for whatever reason.

He pointed his finger at me. "...See, there you go again, surprising me. You're such a surprise, cupcake. Who'da thought?"

I opened my mouth to ask him just what the fuck he was talking about, but he cut me off. "Couple of bodies here," he held out his hands as if to demonstrate. "Some workplace gossip there, a bit of physical violence and _**voila**_!" He threw up his hands, his voice raising into that creepy, excited high-pitch tone, and I sat back, alarmed, until he set his palms down flat on the table and smacked his lips. "Out you come, and it's just so _much_ _**fun**_ to watch."

"_Fun_?" I breathed in disbelief, frowning hard at him, the tone in my voice harsh and ugly. "Yeah, it's so much _fun_ to be alienated by your coworkers and strangled by the first guy I've met in years-"

At that, Jack lowered his eyes and his eyebrows rose, a flirtatious little smile on his lips. "I was your first, huh?"

"Jesus," I scoffed, shaking my head, and threw my purse strap over my shoulder. I'd had enough. "I'm leaving."

"She let herself in," Jack growled before I had a chance to stand up, and I looked at him, at his hard eyes and how he was no longing smiling. There was that low, dangerous tone in his voice that I knew all too well, that I'd become far too accustomed to, and it glued me right to my seat. He raised his eyebrows at me. "I know, I could tell."

I was ready to retaliate angrily and ask him why he tried to strangle me if he knew Estelle had let herself into the room, but he shook his head just a little, crossing his arms out in front of him, keeping his eyes hard on mine, probably to make sure I wouldn't get up out of my seat. "I knew you'd keep our _sec__**ret**_."

I shrugged my shoulders, shaking my head at him. So much for our secret, if that's really what he wanted to call it; Estelle knew all about the mirror now, and she'd find some way to get back at both me and him for the way we'd tried to hide it from-

"Got a few of your own, _don't__**cha**_, sugarplum?"

The bar got eerily quiet then. I don't know if it was the way he said it, with such low malice, or the way he was staring at me, but suddenly I felt a real chill crawl up the length of my spine, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps roll over my arms. I felt the frown on my face softening, though I held onto my purse and coat just as tightly. Everyone has their secrets, their _own _secrets, that was no big mystery...but why had he said it like that? Like he had been inside my head and seen everything that had happened in my life, everything that had led me to this drink with him in the Black Canary, to this very conversation?

With his eyes still hard on me, I watched as he tongued his scars on the inside of his mouth. I felt paralyzed; I simply couldn't move, couldn't say a word, didn't know what to do, and he knew it, too. That's why he'd said it, to make sure I wouldn't leave.

"Tell me that scar on your shoulder isn't just one _big_ _sec__**ret**_."

I flinched when he enunciated the end of that word and I felt tears pinching at the corner of my eyes, as well as a burning in a very particular spot just above my right collarbone. It burned right then, as much as it had the day I got it, and suddenly I was scared, I was scared to **death **about what I was hearing, about what was coming out of his mouth. I shook my head at him, fighting, _fighting _to keep the tears from spilling onto my eyelashes. "How did you-"

"Or the fact you didn't scream when Mr. Sideburns grabbed you," Jack interrupted, his voice strong and stern and no-nonsense, like he was a detective inquiring information from me. I opened my mouth to argue and tell him that I _did_ scream...but I didn't. I hadn't screamed at all, not the way I should have. I don't even know how Jack had known what was going on, given that I didn't scream when the goon grabbed me.

Jack sat back in his chair, smacking his lips and looking around the bar as if we were talking about the weather or some mundane shit like that. I watched him, curling my arms into my body to hug myself for comfort, and when he turned his eyes back to me, I couldn't help but scowl at him.

"Girls _always_ scream, believe me..." Jack said in that indifferent tone of voice, as he rolled his eyes, but then he stared me down and we were back to no-nonsense. "But you didn't."

I swallowed thickly and sucked in a shaky breath through my mouth. I wanted him to stop, I didn't want to hear about it, about any of it, I just wanted to forget any of it had ever happened, but would he have stopped, even if I asked him to?

Jack shrugged out his shoulders a little. "Who knew what he had planned for you, but did you scream? No. Now, _maybe..._maybe it's because you thought there'd be no one around to hear you."

I shook my head at him. Shut up, Jack, just _shut __**up**_.

Jack lowered his eyes and they narrowed to me, dangerous and hungry, like a predator.

"But I think it's because you knew _not_ to scream."

I felt my jaw shaking and my teeth chattering, I was holding back the urge to cry _so _much_._

Jack smirked a little in his throat. "And there's no shame in your eyes so my guess is shame had nothing to do with it. My guess is..." and he tilted his head to the side, as if that would give him more insight, and he made an interested sound in his throat.

"...It was _**love**_."

A tear slipped down from the corner of my eye and I glared at him, hatefully. I wanted to sob, but I held it back, held it back with hatred. I hated him, I _hated __**him**_. He didn't know. He knew _nothing _about _**any of it. **_What the _**fuck **_gave him the right to say anything about what happened, he wasn't there, he didn't know. He _didn't know __**anything**_.

But he was relentless. He felt my anger, I knew he did, I could tell in the way he was looking at me, in that no bullshit way of his, where his eyes darkened but they stayed with me and they told me to wake the fuck up and smell the coffee, _that _kind of look, and he wouldn't back down. No matter how much I stared daggers at him, no matter how much I cried, no matter how much I did _anything_...he would never back down.

Angrily I wiped away the tear that had fallen and looked away from him. I didn't notice what else was going on in that bar, no matter how much I tried to pull my attention away from Jack, it was always drawn right back to him. I crossed my arms over my chest and hugged myself, shielding myself from him, and the air between us was dead silent before I finally closed my eyes tightly together, holding back anger, and sighed heavily through my nostrils. "What do you want, Jack?"

Jack was unflinching, like a stone statue. "I want to know how it feels."

I stared at him, confused. How _what _felt? That he was invading my space after trying to strangle me and asking all these personal questions that had nothing to do with him?

Jack leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "Tell how it felt when you saw that charmer nose-down in his own _blood_," the tone in his voice was low but oddly interested, almost as if he was excited, and once again I felt goosebumps roll over my arms. His tongue lashed out against his scars. "Tell me how it feels to feel your blood rushing through your veins once more."

I sneered at him. How was it supposed to feel? I'd been frightened, scared out of my fucking mind, how could he doubt that? And if he was insinuating that I hadn't felt alive before I discovered the bodies in 306, he was _dead _wro-

"You reached for me," Jack interrupted, harshly, making me jump a bit. "You reached for me because you knew you could see the bastard dead, you _wanted _him dead, the way you couldn't see the _other one_ dead, even if you wanted to..."

I stared at him in horror. The _other one_...

"Because of _**love**_."

I pressed my hand to my mouth then, closed my eyes and looked away. I wanted to burst into tears and not stop crying until I was dead, it was almost too strong a want to ignore. Jack didn't say anything or do anything, he gave me my moment, my moment of weakness, that moment where suddenly everything came flooding back with only a few words, _everything_, every single happy memory, sad thought, broken bone, and bad dream. Every argument, every bit of pain, every tear I shed, every feeling of resentment, every feeling of love...because it _was _love, it was, and it got the better of me, it took advantage, it _hurt_, it hurt way more than it was ever supposed to.

I don't know how he knew, but he did, like the past ten years of my life were a book he simply pulled off the shelf at the bookstore. I sniffed heavily but didn't cry, didn't allow myself to cry. It'd been a long time, it'd been years, and I'd cried plenty in that time frame, I didn't need to cry any more.

We may as well have been the last two people in that bar, in all of Gotham. It was so quiet and Jack didn't even seem to breathe across the table from me. But I could feel his eyes on me, they wouldn't leave me. He'd tasted my anger and then he wanted my pain, and he got it. And I knew I should have been furious with him for prying, but for whatever reason, I wasn't. Maybe I wasn't because I knew, I _knew_, it was something I had to hear. Something I had to hear because I would never admit it to myself, not now, not in a million years.

I settled myself and though I really didn't want to, I turned my eyes back to Jack. Jack just stared at me, his eyes never left me for a second.

"So where is he now?"

_Him_, where was _he _now? I'd spent the last four years trying to forget, trying to move on with my life in this shitty part of town with no money, no real sense of reality, nothing but a piece of advice given to me that I took to heart and ran for my life with, four years ago. Where was _he_ now, like I'd ever know that, like I'd ever have the privilege of that closure; it didn't happen like that in the Narrows, it simply didn't, and it had happened so long ago that sometimes it seemed as though it hadn't happened at all, like I'd dreamt the whole thing or seen it on a daytime soap opera.

I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, lowering my eyes. "He's gone."

Without missing a beat, Jack asked. "Who did it?"

I looked at him in alarm. I don't know how he deduced that from how little I'd said, but it was obvious that he was far more intelligent than I thought. Maybe he would know, maybe he would understand better than anyone, and that's why he was asking. He was older than me, not by much, I could tell, but he likely knew the Narrows better than I did.

I looked down at the table, thinking back. I remembered the way he came into the room, out of the shadows and into the light, all suave and sophisticated. His dark hair was on the verge of graying, and he had a smug expression on his face. I remember how I thought he was going to kill me, how I thought he'd come to tell me that Eric was dead, and I was dead too. But he didn't. I don't know what he was instructed to do when he showed up at our apartment like that, but he took pity on me, I could see it in his face when he saw mine. He took pity on me and told me to run, to disappear. And I _did _disappear.

I don't know who _did _it, even to this day with this conversation. But I know who told me, and that seemed indication enough of what had happened. I looked up at Jack, into his expectant gaze, and I told him.

"Salvatore Maroni."

A sound of acknowledgement, _pleased_ acknowledgement, rumbled in his throat, and a smile crossed his mangled lips. I didn't smile back, I stared at him, feeling very strange and unsettled. It'd been the first time in a very long time that I'd confided to anyone what had happened with Eric, and I hadn't even said that much, but I didn't need to. Jack understood; he understood better than anyone.

Jack reached for his beer bottle, still smiling. "Like I said. You're a surprise."

I watched him take a sip, his eyes on me still, and I looked away, looking at the waitress whispering to the bartender, at the guys who had been playing pool and were now sipping their beers quietly in the corner, probably wondering what the hell was going on. I felt so weirdly exposed but at the same time protected, as if nothing could possibly happen in that bar right then, not with Jack.

He set down his beer bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat back in his chair, wiggling his eyebrows at me. "How about a change of topic, hmm? Maybe you'd like to hear a little about me."

I stared at him, watching as he leaned forward to put his forearms on the table, how he leaned close to make sure we wouldn't be overheard, how his eyes were so big and chocolate brown even though it was so dark there in the bar.

"You wanna know how I got these scars?"

My heart thundered in my chest. I remembered the first time I saw the scars, how much they startled me, and how he acted about them, how he punched the mirror, how the whores backed away from him as if repulsed, how everyone in the hotel associated him with the scars and only the scars. For so long I wanted to know how it happened, and now that he was about to tell me, it almost didn't matter.

I swallowed thickly and stared at him. "How?"

Jack smacked his lips. "Same way you got yours."

I stared at him, and I wanted to cry. I wanted to sit there and sob, but I didn't. I held his gaze and I watched his eyes. He was serious and I knew it and I wanted to cry.

_The same way I got _mine_..._I knew what he meant, I knew all too well; they were given to him, given to him by someone who _hurt_ him when they should have _**loved**_ him.

Biting down on my lip to keep from bursting into tears, I looked down at his hand, his big, callused hand resting on the tabletop, and I fought the greatest urge to take it gently between my hands and press it to my cheek.

**/**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **HUGE author's note here, guys. First off, special thanks to **linalove, happytide, Last Laugh, SexyJokerLovers, GlitteringSnow, Sugary Snicket, L van Am, corbsxx, Ravenclaw992, Leyshla Gisel, EmmberlyneRiddle, UrieNanashi, Firerosemon, LadyBonBon, SammiRichGurl, gege, TC Stark, Serendipity's tears, slytherin-until-i-die, JordanGoombette, TinkerbellxO, SaxonBandwagon, Lexiful Sunshine, boca3, rosalind-celeste, ShizukaRen-Hime, EmilyEverlasting, C, iwishtheskywasgreen, StargazingED, Comidia Del Arte, pourquoibella, KorroksApostle, Blacklion2803, ZenyZootSuit, HelloKeke, Va va, GalanthaDreams, Misplaced Levity, KrnYong, trickstersink, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, manamikuran126, bibikitten, grindly, Lady Liesel, Frenzy In Delirium, Cibria, Last laugh, ALK, Elsain, ImNotALizard, Emma, vickielee, ZombiePeach, Lyra Raine Sparrow, X-PoisonCherry-X, soupkitchen, gaaralover1989, Robotdonkey, Dance Elle Dance, kab, Jollyrancher, Green Animelover, TheMarquise, Zelda Zonkk, Rehaniah, tinkerbell9211, Harleyharley564, Luna The Silver Fox, Anger-lola, MissMeringue, Crimsin Butterfly, Mehovik, TiffanyPxoxo, jokerrPutASmileOnThatFace, partyalpaca, Blue Eye Phantom, Emma, Mushroomking98, Guest, Marie Phantom, Hannah, Rain3212, InTheShadowOfSignificance, AmberCyn221b, cathy loves heath, SavvyJackie **and** A RABID FAN **for your reviews. I'm SO SORRY I haven't been replying to your reviews; I know I use this excuse every single time, but this school semester was supposed to be the Semester of Ennya and it just isn't. It just really...isn't, and the stress has been overwhelming.

This chapter is dedicated to **KorroksApostle **for being an incredible confidant during a difficult time.

**There is tiny little piece of this chapter that doesn't belong to me**; it doesn't exactly belong in this story, and it **doesn't necessarily change anything or mean anything**. **I want to make this totally clear**; it's only there because I thought it would be fun, and because it totally gave me chills. Some of you will recognize it and understand; for the rest of you...I'm _really_ looking forward to your reactions.

* * *

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**/**

It was late by the time we paid the bill, and by then the waitress was giving me these long, hard looks as though she could deduce what we'd been saying simply by staring at me. I avoided eye contact as I gave her a few bucks for my tea, but her eyes were still on me as I put on my coat and swung my purse over my shoulder. They watched us leave, the waitress, the bartender, and even the bikers in the corner, they all watched us as we quietly left. I don't know what they were thinking. I know it must have seemed strange that Jack and I were leaving the bar together, judging by how tenuous our conversation had been, and how we had simply sat there in silence for what seemed like a helluva long time. But what could I say? Nothing more needed to be said, and sometimes it was a relief to be able to sit with someone and not have to talk. Especially those days.

Jack followed me out and I didn't tell him not to. Frankly being in the Narrows that late had me very nervous until I realized that he was walking alongside me instead of heading off in the opposite direction, with his hands in his pockets and his head down, without another word to me. I don't know if he meant to escort me to the train, or walk with me until we came close to the Palace, or if he was just walking alongside me for the hell of it, for something to do, for however long or however short. All I know is that I felt quite a bit more at ease with him there.

It was one of those eerily quiet nights in the Narrows, where you could hear police sirens far off in the distance and hope they weren't headed in your direction. The rain would stop soon and the weather would get warmer, but then the streets would smell worse than they did and the homeless people, the junkies and the prostitutes would emerge in full force looking for a dime. I pulled the folds of my coat together to ward off the mid evening chilliness, and looked up at Jack at my side, who towered over me a full head, which made me smile a little.

"Where do you live?" I asked him.

"Your hotel." He answered blatantly, but not in that way he sometimes did that made me feel like an idiot.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Yeah, but before then?"

Jack kept his dark eyes ahead of him. He was unphased by the question, almost as if he didn't remember and he didn't care. "Here and there."

"Are you from Gotham?"

I watched as he looked away, as if exasperated, and I listened for the heavy telltale sigh, but it never came. I knew I was being kinda nosey, but I couldn't help it; we'd just had our first real conversation back at the Black Canary, but I hadn't had the chance to ask the questions I wanted to.

"You ask too many questions, gumdrop." He said after a moment, dully, but not annoyed.

I frowned. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the reason he'd let me in to 310 with as much ease as he could was my talent to NOT ask questions; and here I was risking it all by asking a bunch of rather meaningly questions. I resorted to changing the subject. "Will you stop with the cupcake gumdrop stuff? I have a name, y'know."

Jack went kinda quiet then, and for a split second I was worried I was being bitchy, though I had been careful to watch my tone and make it as unbitchy as I could.

I head him rustle with the folds of his huge raincoat, shoving his hands in the pockets. "I know your name."

That surprised me, but I'm not sure why. I knew there'd been moments where he would have heard people saying my name, but I don't know, for whatever reason I guess I thought he wouldn't have...listened, or something. "Well why don't you call me it? I call you by your name."

"Well maybe you shouldn't."

I could hear the self-loathing in his voice when he growled that, and it made me press my lips together tightly. I hadn't meant to instigate anything; in fact I'd tried especially hard to make sure I never did instigate anything. I kept my head down and crossed my arms over my chest. The cold was biting at my calfs and I couldn't wait to get home and crawl into bed and cocoon myself in my comforter and hold Henry to me like a water bottle, no matter how much he yowled.

I looked up at Jack once more, who was so quiet except for the schlepping of his footsteps that he would have seriously creeped me out if I didn't know him. That wasn't really fair and I knew it wasn't, especially considering that day I had seen the whores on the street react to him, but it was true. The man gave over a really ominous-

Suddenly, we had to come to an abrupt stop, as a young man, probably in his 20s or so, stepped out of the alleyway we were just approaching. I almost went crashing into Jack's side before I stopped myself, frowning at the kid. I figured we would have ignored him and kept on walking, except for the fact he had practically stepped right in front of us, blocking our path.

"Hey man," said the kid in a low, scratchy voice, and I watched him shuffle from one foot to the other, wiping his nose, looking at his feet, down the street, anywhere but right at us. "Spare some change?"

I frowned, and I don't know why, but I took a half step behind Jack, standing at his shoulder and watching the kid suspiciously. I wasn't crazy about panhandlers to begin with; the Narrows had their fair share of hostile panhandlers who would verbally abuse you if you walked past them and tried to ignore them. The kid didn't strike me as hostile, necessarily, but there was something about him that really bothered me. I don't know if it was the way he was looking around, like he was being watched, or the way he wouldn't look up, I don't know what it was. All I knew was that I was suddenly very tempted to take Jack's arm, even if it was just holding the fabric of his coat sleeve, something to let him know that I was very uncomfortable.

But I didn't even have to do that; Jack simply froze and stared him down, and I knew the look he was giving the kid, with his pitch black eyes and that no-nonsense frown on his scarred lips. Maybe that was why the kid wouldn't look at him, wouldn't look at us. Jack scared the hell out of him.

Something about it made me want to smile a little. Jack, the pillar, the tower of stone. My knight in stitched-up-

That was when I heard it. Footsteps, running footsteps, coming up behind us _fast_.

But I reacted too late. I turned my head to verify my suspicions, and suddenly hands were on me, gripping my arm and my shoulder. I gasped aloud, too surprised to scream, and I saw Jack's reaction and the way he turned his head to the commotion but then they were on him too, I saw gloves hands grabbing the loose folds of his raincoat. I opened my mouth to scream but then suddenly I was being pushed forward, and I was working hard to keep my footing on the concrete, desperately trying to wrench my arm and shoulder away from whoever grabbed me.

Fear filled me right then. We were being pushed deep into the alleyway, far from the sidewalk and the road, far from anyone who might see something. The fear staring as a solid pit in my stomach and crawled along my skin like a chill. I struggled against my assailant, but the hands gripped me tighter, and when I opened my mouth to scream, because there seemed to be nothing else I could do, a gloved hand clapped over my mouth.

I fought then because the fear had taken over. I couldn't scream, I couldn't call out, I couldn't call to Jack, I couldn't do anything, so I fought. I thrashed hard against the hands that gripped me, trying to break his hold on me so I could try to make a getaway. I tried screaming against the gloved hand clamped against my mouth but it was hopeless, no scream of mine could possibly escape. The other hand, the free hand of my attacker, suddenly gripped my wrist so hard that I had to cry out, and he wrenched it behind my back and held me fast against him. I stopped fighting then, because I knew he would break my arm without hesitating. I started to breathe heavily against the gloved hand clapped over my mouth as my attacker held me upright to attention.

I watched, powerless, as two men, the kid who had approached us and another one, slightly taller, probably a little older, threw Jack against the brick wall in front of me and pummeled punches into his stomach. Jack bent over, reeling from the attack, but he hardly made a sound, save for a few grunts here and there, whether from pain or anger, I wasn't sure which. All I could see was the expression on his face, the furrowing of his brow, his eyes clenched closed, his mouth in a sneer of fury.

I was forced to watch and all I wanted to do was scream at them to leave him alone; unshed tears stung my eyes and I just wanted to go to him and help him to his feet and take him back to the Palace, take him back to 310. I fought my captor, testing his grip on me, but I only did it twice before he pulled on my arm and the pain forced me to stop and stay still.

After what seemed like forever, the two guys stopped, and at this point Jack had collapsed to his knees, doubled over. I stared at him; I didn't know why he wasn't fighting back; this was _Jack, _after all. There were two of them, but he was stronger than both of them, I knew he was. Why was he letting them do it?

"Where the fuck's my money?!" the larger of the two men demanded down at Jack, damn near bellowing at the top of his lungs, and it startled me. "Huh, man? I want my _fucking _money!"

"He wants his fucking money, mother_fucker_!" piped in the kid, and he was damn near jumping around like he was just itching to punch him again. I stared at Jack, kept my eyes trained on him. I didn't know what they were talking about, I didn't care; I just wanted to see him get to his feet.

"I got you the blueprints you needed, I'm just supposed to give that away for free?" the older of the two was positively spitting, he was so pissed off, and it scared me. I didn't know what they would do. "I told you a week and a week's come and gone, so where the fuck's my money?"

I felt hot tears roll down the corners of my eyes as Jack mumbled something, I couldn't hear what it was, but I knew it was his voice, I knew that low rumbling of his voice. He rose his eyes to one of the men and said something and that was when the man punched him square in the face, causing me to scream and jolt against my captor. I called his name against the hand muffling my voice. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't _stand _it! I just wanted them to stop hurting him!

"I swear to god, man," said the older man, pointing down at Jack, even though he had his head bent to his chest. "I swear to fucking god, man, I'll kill you and I'll kill your fucking bitch here, too! You got me? I want my fucking money!"

The younger curled his fingers in Jack's hair and wrenched his head up. Jack was bleeding both from his mouth and out of the corner of his mouth. The look in his eyes was absolutely murderous.

As the younger man held Jack's head up, the older slammed his fist down on Jack's cheekbone. I heard the impact and I screamed, and Jack let out an almost inhuman sound. He doubled over, planting his hands on the ground to catch himself and hold himself up. After a moment, he spat onto the ground, and I knew he was spitting blood. I couldn't tell for sure there in the darkness, but I just knew he was spitting blood.

It seemed as though the two men had gotten it out of their systems. They stood there for a moment, just sniffing and inspecting their knuckles and muttering almost inaudibly to each other. I didn't know what they were going to do next; Jack looked so hurt, it was obvious that the message was received. How much further were they going to go?

And then, as if they could read my mind, they turned their attention to me, and my heart just stopped.

There was a look in their eyes, this heavy, hooded dark look that I'd seen before, that I remember seeing in the Falcone goon's eyes. My breathing started to quicken and they continued to mutter to each other, snickering a bit under their breath. I looked down at Jack, who was seemingly immobilized. I wanted to scream to him, I just wanted to scream his name at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly, one of the men, the older of the two, produced a knife from out of nowhere, and he held it loosely between his fingers as if it were a pencil. He took a step towards me, and the younger one held back, wiping his nose, with a damned eerie smile on his mouth. I jerked against my captor but he just held me tighter, and the tears stung hard in my eyes, and I closed them to avoid looking at the man coming closer and closer to me with the knife.

"Look at that _hair_," I heard him hiss, just a few feet in front of me, and I heard my captor snicker in my ear, cruelly, and it made me sob. "_Black _hair...I'm gonna take some of that _hair _with me..."

I sobbed, hard, and he stood in front of me and practically ripped open my jacket, the buttons flying; the cold air hit my throat sharply and I wrenched my head to the side, clenching my eyes closed as tightly as I could, as though I could just shut it all out, pretend I couldn't hear it, couldn't see it, pretend it just wasn't happening at all.

"Ooooooh," came the bastard's delightful croon. "A maid uniform!"

The three of them sniggered sickly, causing my stomach to jump and flop as if it was a live thing desperately trying to escape my body. I wanted to be sick, I was so terrified.

"Ain't exactly a French maid uniform..." he said, his tone bordering on disappointment, but then I heard him tsk. "But whatever."

He was in front of me then; I could feel the heat radiating off his body, and I could hear his heavy, heaving breath and it made me sob so hard. Within a moment I felt the cold touch of steel pressed underneath my collarbone and I just cried. I cried hard because there was nothing I could do.

I felt the knife biting at my skin, making me whimper, and I felt the bastard's free hand grip the folds of my skirt in between his fingers...but then he paused.

He paused, and then I paused...because we both heard it.

Laughter.

_That _laughter.

My eyes popped open, and I looked down at Jack. It started under his breath, but loud enough that we could hear it, and I saw his shoulders shake and though he were trying to suppress it. The man with the knife had a sudden look on his face of _what the fuck_ as he pulled his attention away from me and looked down at Jack. The younger of the two men was backing away from him, slowly, as though the chuckling was scaring the shit out of him.

I knew one thing for sure, it was scaring the shit out of _me. _

I knew that laughter. The laughter from the bathroom...

It started as a dark chuckle, but that was enough to get him started. I watched as the shaking of his shoulders gave way to the high-pitched giggling, the amused little cackle...

And then it emerged. That full hyena-equse shrieking laugh, bouncing off the bricked walls around us, surrounding us. The younger kid flinched and jumped back. The man with the knife seemed to forget about me completely, turning to look at Jack with a severe look of _what the fuck _on his face.

And me...my blood ran cold.

The younger man pointed down at Jack, while the laughter continued to envelope us. "This motherfucker's messed up!"

"So shut him up!" said the man with the knife, but I heard the nervousness in his voice.

I watched intently as the young man went towards him, and I just knew that he was going to kick Jack, or stomp on his hands, or do something to shut him up, whatever he had to do.

But the laughter...I knew what the laughter meant.

As soon as the kid got close enough, Jack rose up on his knees, faster than any of us saw, really, and he grabbed the kid's arm. Suddenly there was a flurry of shouting and screaming and noise all around me. I stared, my eyes wide with shock, as Jack jerked the kid towards him and plunged what could only be a knife into his stomach. The kid let out a sick sound through his mouth, something between a gasp and gargling. My attacker with the knife reacted, screaming obscenities, holding out his own knife and watching as Jack climbed to his feet, still gripping the kid's arm.

I couldn't see the look on Jack's face, all I could see was the thick curtain of his greasy hair. But I saw him pull back his arm and let the kid go. The kid clutched his stomach with both hands and looked like he was about to vomit. My attacker, the one with the knife, rushed Jack, screaming and holding the knife out, and Jack turned on him. I stared, shocked, because all I could hear was Jack's insane laughter over the screaming of both my attacker and my captor, right in my ear, and all I could see was a flurry of limbs and oversized coats. I struggled against my captor, thinking maybe I could get away, but he held me fast, twisting on my arm and making me squeak in pain. I closed my eyes to keep another batch of tears from coming through.

All I could hear was that _laughter_.

And then, I gasped, as suddenly I heard a body being shoved into the wall next to me.

I opened my eyes and Jack had the guy up against the wall with one hand on his throat and the knife in his other hand. The guy was bleeding from a nasty gash in his forehead. Jack was snickering in his throat as his hand moved from the guy's throat to his mouth and he forced it open with the pinch of his fingers.

Then, I watched, as Jack stuck the blade into his mouth, _carefully_, as though he were giving a child a thermometer to check his temperature. And then I gasped aloud, as the gloved hand left my mouth.

"_Hold it_," snarled my captor in my ear, and I heard the desperation and the fear in his hard voice, and I saw the shimmer of the blade he held up in one hand in the low light. I froze, quit my fighting; we weren't out of the woods yet.

I watched as Jack slowly turned and looked over at us, his eyes full of hate but his eyebrows lifted as though wondering who had the audacity to interrupt him. His eyes flickered to me and then they went to my captor's, a look of total malice on his face.

My captor heaved in my ear, struggling to hold up the knife. "I'll kill her," he promised, and although his voice was shaking, it was hard. "You let him go or I'll kill her."

In all honesty, I thought maybe he was bluffing, but he was still holding the knife up for Jack to see, and Jack did see it. He regarded the knife seriously, smacking his lips the way he did, and his nose curled because I knew he didn't like being challenged like that. I swallowed hard and stared at him. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to look at me and see how scared I was, how I wanted him to come to my rescue. I needed him to look at me and see the pleading in my eyes, because they _were_ pleading.

And then he did look at me. He looked right at me, but nothing about his demeanor changed. His eyes didn't soften, his expression didn't slacken. He was still full of hate and anger and he wanted blood and he was going to get it. But still I stared at him and I knew he saw the tear stains on my cheeks, the fear in my eyes, my lips that were shaking, just dying to say his name but completely unable to. His eyes were on me...and then they weren't.

My captor spun the knife around in his hand so that the point of the blade pressed against my stomach, and I screamed out in fear, completely unable to help it, while fresh tears poured down my cheeks and I clenched my eyes closed.

"I fucking mean it, man_!_" bellowed the man in my ear, over my scream, and I felt the tip of the knife pressing against my belly and I started to shake my head, mumbling incoherently, begging without being conscious of forming any actual words. "_I'll_ _**fucking kill her**__!_"

I opened my eyes, but Jack wasn't even looking at me. He was looking at his prize, with his face scrunched in a sneer, a furious, hateful sneer. He didn't say anything, and I watched his eyes screw closed and stay closed for moments. My captor shook; I knew he was as scared as I was, as scared as the man in Jack's hold was.

Over my frantic heaving and sobbing, I stared at him. "Jack..."

I watched him turn his head just slightly, just _slightly, _away from me, his eyes still closed.

"_**Jack**_-!"

In one fell swoop, Jack thrust his arm out, dragging the knife up along the man's cheek until it stopped, an inch from his ear. The bastard let out a blood-curdling scream and his hands started to flail.

And the knife sank into my stomach as easily as cutting a cake.

I knew I was screaming, but I couldn't hear it. I knew I was bellowing from the bottom of my lungs. White hot pain seared my belly and shot up along my arms and down into my legs and up along my neck into my head. I screamed in pain and absolute agony and felt the sick feeling of the blade being pulled out of my flesh, which made it worse...because then I could feel the blood.

I don't really know what happened in those next few minutes, exactly. I really don't. One minute all I was aware of was the pain, and the fact that the blade had been pulled out, and the next thing I knew I had lost all support in my legs, and the bastard holding onto me throughout the whole incident wasn't holding me anymore.

I slumped forward and fell, my knees hitting the pavement hard. One hand went to the wound instinctively while I was somehow conscious enough to put out my other hand against the pavement to keep from face-planting. My hand scraped over the cement but I barely noticed. All around me I heard shouts and screaming. I heard foot scrambling against the cement. I heard it all bounce off the brick walls around me...but I still don't know what happened, exactly.

More voices, more shouts and then footsteps, solid footsteps making a getaway. I listened, because I thought if I tried to focus on the noise around me, I could forget momentarily about the pain. I collapsed down on one hip, gasping, trying to breathe, not even bothering to try to control the flow of tears. I felt the brick wall at my back and struggled to press my back against it, pulling my legs in, managing into a sitting position. And in that time it hadn't occurred to me that things had suddenly gone rather quiet there in that alley.

I managed to let my head fall back against the brick, wincing as the wound hurt worse than anything I'd ever experienced before. I felt the blood on my fingers and tried to pull my legs in closer, as if that would stop the bleeding. Breathing hard, I managed to ease my eyes open, try to gauge what had happened, to see if they had killed Jack and made their getaway, or...

...or if I was alone...with Jack.

He was standing a few feet away from me, looking towards the street. His head was bent and his shoulders were wrenched up high to his ears. I saw the knife clenched in his fist. I knew what that stance meant. It meant that they'd gotten away.

I continued to stare at him, and how he just stood there like a foreboding mass of evil, but god...god...the pain was too much. I pressed my fingers harder against my stomach, caught between sobbing and hiccuping, not sure what to do, too scared to open the fold of my coat and assess the damage, but I already knew it was bad. I could feel the warmth of blood sliding down over my belly and seeping over my hips and in between my thighs. I could damn near taste it in my mouth and smell it over the odor of cold garbage and other alley smells. My breathing quickened as the pain intensified, a solid pit of pain in my stomach, made worse by the pressure of my fingers, but I knew I had to try to stop the bleeding. Above all, to stop the bleeding.

Jack stood several feet away from me and I felt his snub like the pain in my belly. He'd let the bastard do it, he knew the bastard was going to do it, and he didn't do anything to stop it, he did _nothing _to stop the bastard from stabbing me! Suddenly I wanted to scream at him, I just wanted to let my fury out and scream and tell him I hated him, tell him I _hated _him, tell him I cursed the day he'd come to the Palace and ruined my life!

But the pain was so intense and the need to scream was so minimal...what good would it do? He didn't care. He'd let the bastard stab me, he didn't even try to stop him; he didn't care that I was sitting there bleeding profusely, he only cared that the bastards got away. He didn't care about me at all. He just didn't.

But then I heard his footsteps, and I closed my eyes. I didn't want to look at him. I didn't want him to be there. I just wanted him to disappear.

But I felt Jack's presence touring over me before I saw him, and I flinched, despite the pain, catching myself by pressing my free hand against the freezing brick, waiting to plant my feet into the ground, hoist myself to my feet and run, run away from him as fast and as far as I could. Sadly I knew I would get maybe 10 feet before collapsing.

His kill had gotten away...and so I resorted to panic.

Jack stared down at me and I could feel the hardness of his eyes on me; he stood there silently, menacingly, while I sat there pressing my eyes together so I wouldn't look up at him. I waited for the harshness of his big hands wrenching me up to my feet so he could look me in the eye before he did whatever he was going to do. I sobbed as the wound throbbed and I felt a wave of blood on my skin and through my clothes, soaking through my coat, onto my fingers. I swallowed back tears, but it was useless.

Jack was silent as a statue, staring down at me as though trying to determine what he was going to do. I moved my useless legs in a half-assed effort to move away from him, even just slightly, but a jolt of pain ran through me and in the pain and in my fear, I cried out and gave up, and let the tears come.

"Get up."

His voice was cold as ice and not like the way I would have expected. He sounded calm if not contemplative, and that scared me even more; he was taking his time, drawing out each moment, watching me in my fear and my pain, and I hated him for it. God, how I _hated _him!

I felt the impatience in the air between us as I sat there pathetically; over the noise of my own tears, I heard him draw in a sharp breath through his nose and let it out as a flare in his nostrils. I set my hand down against the cold pavement to try to get to my knees, at least try to make some attempt of escape. But I was immobilized by the pain, I knew I was; I couldn't have escaped him if I tried.

"Come on, cupcake," he bit at me. "Get up."

I winced because it was an order, an order that said _get to your feet or I'll make you get to your feet_, and it was harsh and ugly. I pressed my hand against the wound to protect it from him. I was beginning to feel sick, from blood loss, pain, or just fear, but my head started to spin and I felt nauseas, so much so that I leaned forward feeling that I might throw up on the pavement. A disgusting taste arose in my mouth, a taste between bile and blood and it made me sob. If I vomited, would I vomit blood?

I heard him sigh in great exasperation overtop of me, and I squeezed my eyes closed waiting for his fingers to grab my shoulder, or twine themselves in my hair and wrench me to my knees. My hand against the pavement was numb with cold and I considered crawling away, seeing how far I could get before he had tired of my pathetic will to get away from him.

He crouched next to me, causing me to flinch violently. "Alright," he said, almost to himself. "Come here."

The moment I felt his hand on me, I reacted, shrieking in fright and lashing out at him with my hand. I fell back against the wall, gasping at the shooting pain, and watched as he reacted in surprise, pulling back his hand as though I'd burned him. I saw the blacks of his eyes and the strange expression on his mangled face but all I could hear was the laughter, that horrible, cruel laughter bouncing off the brick walls around us, and those eyes, those dead black eyes that wouldn't even look at me when I needed him most.

The surprise was short-lived and once more Jack set his hand on me. "Come on-"

"No!" I shrieked at him, as loud as I could, shrilly, and I rose my arm against my face to hide myself from him. "Get awa-get away from me!"

There was a very long, silent moment then between us. I could feel the heat radiating off him and intuitively I wanted to collapse into his arms because I was cold, I was so cold, and the spilled blood on my belly cooled against my uniform and jacket and made the wound sting like hell on top of the pain. His body was hot, I could feel it was, and the nausea made me dizzy and I suddenly wanted that warmth more than anything-

But then suddenly, he stood, and I waited for the blow, from his foot, from his fingers, from a knife, but it never came. I knew he was still there, I could feel his presence, and I could feel his hard stare on me.

Over the furious beating of my heart, I heard him utter one word.

"Fine."

And then...footsteps. Footsteps walking away.

I listened, but I could hardly believe my ears as his footsteps became fainted and fainter until they were gone and all I could hear was my own heavy disbelieving breaths. I rose my eyes and looked, but he was gone. He was actually gone.

A very strange feeling flooded over me right then: relief, because for a blessed moment I believed he was really gone, he was gone and I was safe. But at the same time there was disbelief; why would he have left me when it was so obvious he would have hurt me? He would have killed those men if they hadn't gotten away, I was sure of it, I could tell by the way he laughed when he...when he...

But that wasn't important. I had to get up, I had to get help, I'd crawl out onto the street if I had to. Mustering all my strength and taking deep heavy breaths, I tried moving my legs to get my feet into a plantable position. I put both hands on the brick wall and tried to hoist myself up, as slowly as I could, but the movement, however careful, pulled at the wound and a crippling pain shot up along my spine. I screamed, and my knees gave out, and I met the pavement once more, planting my hands down to catch me.

That was when I saw it. My left hand, and down to my wrist, was covered in blood.

My stomach gave a jolt, and I bent low to vomit and then my head felt light and heavy all at the same time. My entire body shook from the cold and I was suddenly so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

It felt like I was...I was...

No. Not here. I pressed my hands into the pavement and pushed myself up, and another shock of pain rolled through my limbs. I cried out in agony and bowed my head, trying to press myself into the wound to ease the pain, but it was constant. I stared down at my hands and they were...blurry. I tried to concentrate on them, but I couldn't fix my sight.

No..._no_-

I swallowed back tears. It couldn't end there, not like that, not in an alley, slumped against the wall with the rest of the trash. Not like that.

I sucked in a breath. I needed warmth. I needed to know it was going to be okay, even though it was so obvious that it wasn't. I needed somebody to tell me everything was going to be okay, and not just my own panicked voice inside my head. I needed...I needed...

I pressed my eyes closed. I'd hate myself forever, but I'd have to get to forever, first.

"Jack-"

My voice was a croak and it made me sob. I swallowed and turned my head towards where he had disappeared. The alleyway was empty. There were no sounds of life but the sound of police sirens way off in the distance.

Fear gripped me harder than the pain. I couldn't be alone. I couldn't go by myself, not there in the cold. I couldn't. I _couldn't._

"Jack!" I called as loud as I could, but it was swallowed by sobbing, and I didn't bother hiding it. He was gone; no way would he have heard me. I had shoved him away and now he was gone.

The pain throbbed uncontrollably. Tears poured down my cheeks, the one bit of warmth I felt. I was alone, I knew I was alone, but suddenly I was so tired, from the tears or the pain, I'm not sure which, but when my arm gave away and I met the pavement harshly, I scarcely cared. My eyelids were so heavy and it occurred to me that I could sleep and let it all go, let it take over, do what it needed to do. I could sleep through it all and wake up on the other side, whenever I was ready.

I felt the cold pavement on my cheek and I huddled into myself for warmth, blinking to keep my eyes open, but I knew it wouldn't be long. I could feel it coming.

I thought of Amy...beautiful Amy with her curly blonde hair and her elf-like features...and her handsome Matt, who I'd only met once but adored. The brother I never had.

And my parents...my mom, my dad...I would have told them they were right. They were right about Eric, about everything...and I was sorry. I was sorry about everything I'd said to them, I didn't mean it...well I had meant it at the time, but I was young and I thought I was in love and...and I knew it broke their hearts, and I was sorry.

I was so, _so _sorry.

The cold was all I felt. Cold that turned into numbness. Just...numb.

And then...warmth. Glorious warmth. I don't know from what or where or if I was simply feeling it because I couldn't feel anything else. But all of a sudden it was there.

And the pain...the pain just...

...

...kind of went away.

**/**

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

/

_**Only you**_

_**Can make this world seem right**_

_**Only you**_

_**Can make the darkness bright**_

_**Only you, and you alone**_

_**Can thrill me like you do**_

_**And fill my heart with love for only you**_

_**Only you**_

_**Can make this change in me**_

_**For it's true**_

_**You are my destiny**_

_**When you hold my hand**_

_**I understand**_

_**The magic that you do**_

_**You're my dream come true**_

_**My one and only you.**_

_**/**_


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **Well, it happened. Over 1000 reviews. Let me just say, when I first started this story, how many years ago, I NEVER imagined it would have to following it has, and I am so incredibly touched. Thank you guys, and very special thanks to **Ravenclaw992, allthelovers, Guest, Firerosemon, MrsServSnape, Guest, LittlebittyyPrincesskiller, Marie Phantom, Velvet Red Bullet, LadyBonBon, Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin, slytherin-until-i-die, Frenzy in Delirium, Serendipity's tears, MissMeringue, Guest, compa16, golden peaches, Delgodess, m00nviolet, Leyshla Gisel, kittykat6625, UrieNanashi, Lexiful Sunshine, LittleSH, Anna, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, linnie kinda spinnie, Yuki Hikari, iwishtheskywasgreen, linalove, Guest, StargazingED, Mehovik, YoursAnnie, TheAravis, RandomCitizen, HelloKeke, boca3, Crimsin Butterfly, Trillen17, jokerrPutASmileOnThatFace, I'mGoingToWiticha, Lyra Raine Sparrow, FireEnchantress, Aur0ra, yeah9fun, grindly, Guest, ZenyZootSuit, SaxonBandwagon, xXxSaiyanPrincessxXx, Green Animelover, Guest, Blablanlah, elfenwindakachrno, SRowanhill20, happytide, KrnYong, TinkerbellxO, EmilyEverlasting, BuYaoNi, InTheShadowOfSignificance, ShineLovely, TC Stark, CrazyinAbottle, cathy loves heath, random stranger, Princess-Dixon, itsjustanotherbrickinthewall, Emma, safranbrod, Foxcub2, Diving in, Bleedingheart2XLoLa, cinnamonsynia, Lasgalendil, fearofpainteddevils, awsomepalika, corbsxx, ImNotALizard, Gotham's Angel Avenger, Anastasia Beck, Remy Alvera, MsCool, Lutricity, GottaGetBackUp, RegencyPoet, kab, Dizzyy, SavvyJackie, AnitaFajita, music is life 99 xxx, ShipsThatFly. RulerofArrows, FreedomSearcher, AmberCyn.221b, Vermilion Fire, deideiblueeyez, rileybear 14, Guestesy, StormeySkys, Eagerly Waiting, eb, **and **The Cowgirl Bookworm.**

From Chapter 22, "Only You" is written by Buck Ram, based on the performance by Mark Hamill that scared the hell out of me and made me cry all at the same time at the very end of Arkham City. If you don't know it and would like to be severely creeped out, youtube "The Brood Arkham City" and it should come right up. Prepare to get goosebumps. :P

Guess what, guys: no spring courses, no summer courses. Just work and rest and fanfiction and THAT'S IT! XD

Oh, and I finally got Tumblr! Check out my profile for the link.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**/**

When I next opened my eyes, I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was awake or if I was dreaming. I didn't know if I was alive or dead.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn't alone.

Though my sight was blurry, I could see a figure in my peripheral vision off to my left. I closed my eyes and opened them a few times, slowly, thinking maybe it was a figment of my imagination, my tired eyes playing tricks, but there _was_ someone there with me.

It didn't take long for the realization to set in: I was in the hospital; if nothing else, the smell would always give it away. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or concerned or cornered or content. I couldn't move; my arms at my sides and my legs were so heavy I couldn't move them, and I was too exhausted to try to move them. Through my blurry eyes all I could see was white; all I could feel was rough, scratchy, papery sheets. All I could taste was old saliva and bile and I was thirsty and drowsy and I felt sick and exhausted and confused and irritated.

But there was someone in the room with me.

With all the strength I could muster, I turned my head to the side, looking towards the figure standing at the window, blocking the light...

And I felt the greatest urge to cry. It was then, I think, that I knew I must have been dreaming, because I felt a shock, and a realization, and an overwhelming happiness that I had never _ever _experienced in consciousness.

There he was.

There **he **was.

He stood at the window, standing in the light...a bright, beautiful light that poured in from outside. Not sunlight, but something different, something far...warmer, more golden, and the dust in the air caught the beams and shimmered like stardust. He stood silhouetted against that incredible golden light, 5'11, gangly as ever, wearing his slim, black coat that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and his narrow waist, and the curls on top of his head were so black that not even the golden light could touch them.

I felt the tears pinching behind my eyes and I couldn't help the smile that splayed on my lips. I wanted to call out to him, say his name, let his know that I was awake. I wanted him to turn around so I could behold, once again, his delicate features and his big, beautiful green eyes looking at me beneath ink black curls. God how I wanted to get up out of bed and go to him, collapse into his arms, feel him gather me into his body, rest his chin on top of my head, the way he always used to, so that I could bury my face in his chest and breathe in the smell of him that always drove me crazy, lock my arms around his slim frame...just for a moment. Just one moment...before he had a chance to get angry. Before he had a chance to ruin everything, because I knew he would.

But then again...maybe he wouldn't. This was Heaven after all, wasn't it?

Maybe Heaven was where...where I could be with him, quietly, and not have to worry about his temper, not have to worry about him getting angry.

I tried as hard as I could to lift my hand and reach for him with my fingers but my arm wouldn't respond to my demands. I stared at him, petrified that if I blinked, he would be gone. I wanted to call his name so that he would turn around and sit next to me, so I could trace his cheekbones with the pads of my fingers, so that I could curl my fingertips in his hair, his black hair, thick and curly and lustrous. I remembered how, before we moved into our place in the Narrows, before everything totally went to shit, I used to think about the kids we'd have. I used to fantasize about a toddler with jet black hair and huge green eyes, his Dad's eyes, and how when we'd go for walks, the three of us, people would look at us and smile fondly. They'd look at him and smile. Maybe he'd smile back.

I learned to hide my disappointment when he told me he didn't want kids, ever. It meant that I could focus all my love on him. And I did.

I swallowed uncomfortably; my throat was parched and my lips felt so chapped, but I wanted to call out to him. I wanted to just whisper his name so that he would turn and look at me. In some ways, just knowing he was there with me was enough, but if I could...if time and space and the universe would allow it...I just wanted to see his face.

_Jane_?

Somewhere inside myself, I gasped a little in surprise.

Though it seemed so far away, I knew I heard it, but it wasn't his voice. I'd know his voice anywhere; it was deep, very sensual, and he always said my name with a bit of a lusty shudder, as though he'd been searching for me for years and had finally found me.

But Eric had not said my name.

And then...I was staring at Eric at the window and saw him turn his head just a little, just so that I could see his profile a little, see his nose catch in the golden, glimmering light, see the thick curtain of black lashes flutter against sharp cheekbones. A nervous laugh left me; just a little more and I could see his face -

_Jane_.

I gasped a little, for suddenly I became aware of the dull pain in my stomach. I closed my eyes and winced, bearing the pain.

When I next opened my eyes, he was gone.

He was...just...gone.

I stared at the window. The golden light calmed into a sickly gray, pouring in and illuminating the white that surrounded me. It was suddenly so bright that I had to blink several times to get my eyes to adjust. I could feel the texture of the sheets I was lying on and covered with, cheap and scratchy. Distantly I could hear what sounded like a voice over an intercom, and then the shifting of a body in a chair, far closer than I would have thought.

"Jane?"

I sucked in a breath. It came from my right side, and though I wanted to look, I didn't want to pull my eyes away from the window...in case...just in case...

"Jane?"

I turned my head to the right side towards the voice. I couldn't see who it was very clearly; my eyes were still blurry, trying to adjust to the light. I rose my hand weakly and rubbed one eye with my fingertips, trying to get my vision to correct itself.

"Jane," I heard a feminine voice murmur, and for a single blessed moment I thought it was Amy, but when I next heard it, I knew it was too deep to be Amy. "Can you hear me?"

I opened my eyes and things were still blurry, but I could see a petite frame, dark hair and dark eyes. Definitely not Amy.

I didn't know who it was, and therefore didn't know whether to feel relieved that there was somebody there with me, or irritated because...I don't know. I guess I really hadn't been expecting anyone. I hadn't been expecting to wake up.

I swallowed uncomfortably. I wanted water in the worst way. I watched, my eyes starting to focus, as the young woman, whoever she was, pulled the chair closer to my side. She had a delicately lovely face, and before she said a word I knew she was police; she was wearing an outfit that just screamed GCPD, and she had this weird expression, halfway between relieved and freaked out, but I could see she was trying her very best to be smiley. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

I felt drugged, groggy, heavy and sick to my stomach. I'd been stabbed and I'd seen Eric; been convinced, if only for a second, that Eric was there to take me with him, wherever he was, though I had a good idea. But now I was back. Back to the pain. How was I feeling? How was I supposed to be feeling?

She cleared her throat awkwardly, as though she realized that was an inappropriate question, and she leaned towards me, her expression faltering just a little. "Jane, my name is Detective Anna Ramirez...do you know where you are?"

I would have smirked had I the energy; I knew they probably had me fairly doped up on painkillers and what not, but it was fairly obvious. It hadn't been my first time waking up in the hospital.

I heard someone come into the room at that point, but I couldn't be bothered to look and see who it was. I watched Detective Ramirez turn her head and nod in greeting, and in a moment a tall, balding man in glasses and a long white coat appeared in my visage, crossing his hands in front of him and giving me a gentle smile.

"Hello Jane," he said, very gently and soothingly, the same way they all talked. "I'm Dr. Corber. You're in Gotham General."

I looked between them, letting my eyesight sharpen a little. Detective Ramirez was watching me very intently, as if to gauge my reaction to what the doctor was saying. Dr. Corber's smile had disappeared and left behind a severe expression, tipping his chin and narrowing his eyes to me, not to be interrogative, but to communicate as efficiently as he could. "Jane, you were stabbed in the stomach. You lost a lot of blood but you're going to be okay."

"But..." my voice was raspy and I tried to clear my throat. I didn't understand. The hospital...how? I'd passed out in an alley, who would have seen me in an unlit alleyway so late at night? "How did I get here?"

The doctor opened his mouth as if he meant to say something, but then closed it, hesitating, and looked down at Detective Ramirez as if for instructions.

She didn't meet his eye. Instead she scooted closer to the bed in her chair, and leaned forward as if to keep whatever she was going to say next just between the two of us. I stared at her and recognized a very small apprehensive smile in her eyes, despite the fact her lips were pulled into a tight, thin line.

"Batman brought you here."

...

I stared at her, at her soft features and her determined eyes.

B...Ba...

_Batman._

A shudder of disbelief left my lips very suddenly. _"What?"_

Ramirez eased a little smile, as though she understood my disbelief, and she nodded. "He found you passed out in an alleyway. You were bleeding profusely. He brought you here."

He...he brought me to the hospital.

_Batman_ brought me here.

I felt this incredible surge of excitement, despite how I felt so doped-up and exhausted. I tried to sit myself up so I could get a better look at her, but she only reacted with a look of worry.

"Jane, don't get up, you need rest." She reached forward as if to physically push me back down into the bed.

But I couldn't seem to stop myself. "Batman- are you sure? Really?"

I wanted to know all about it, I wanted to hear every single detail!

Ramirez was smiling very gently, but still very apprehensively. I suddenly realized that the Batman must have been kind of a sore subject with Gotham City police, given how she seemed somewhat reluctant to go into the details. But she let her hands gather in her lap and crossed one leg over the other. "I was downstairs in ER talking to one of the nurses about a patient..." she said, slowly, and then her eyes widened a little as if to watch my reaction. "...He appeared and there you were, wrapped in his cape."

...Wrapped in his cape.

"Batman..." I whispered, unable to help myself, unable to believe it, really.

Ramirez nodded, her smile tightening once again. "He saved your life, Jane," she said, very matter-of-fact but also with a tinge of something not unlike disappointment.

Behind her, Dr. Corber tutted rather obviously. "Well...the emergency workers saved your life," he corrected, almost as if he was a little insulted, but when his eyes met mine he couldn't seem to help but smile just a little. "But...if he hadn't brought you in, you might have bled to death."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I couldn't believe any of it. I felt such a rush of incredible excitement and emotion and I just didn't know what to do with it, what to say or anything. _Batman_.

Dr. Corber reached for my chart at the end of the bed and took it in both hands, looking over it with a somewhat disgruntled look while Ramirez leaned forward, a very concerned look in her eyes. "Jane, can you tell me anything about what happened? About your attacker? Was it somebody you knew?"

It was difficult to answer. I couldn't get it out of my head. Batman. _Batman_.

But when I looked at Ramirez and saw the look in her eyes, I cleared my throat and told her. "No, I was...I was..."

I couldn't think straight. All questions about the attack suddenly seemed so trivial. I was alive, wasn't I? I was alive because Batman saved me.

"Don't stress it, Jane," Dr. Corber said quite suddenly. "You've been through an ordeal."

I watched then as the doctor replaced my chart and excused himself, having just been paged on the intercom or something. I watched him go and Ramirez did too, and when he was safely out of the room and I was suddenly feeling better than ever, I watched as she looked at me with a very sad smile.

She pulled the sleeves on her jacket and leaned forward, so that whatever she might say next would only be heard between the two of us. "Jane," her tone was suddenly very grave and serious. "The doctor gave me your file. You've been admitted to the hospital seven times since you turned 18."

Whatever excitement from news of the Batman's rescue was gone, just like that. I looked away from her, down at my hands in my lap, at the wristband around my wrist. I don't know why I was surprised; I had had my purse with me when the attack happened, photo IDs enclosed and all. And it only made sense for them to pull the records and bring them to the attention of the police, embarrassing and shaming as they were.

Ramirez sighed a little. "Fractures, bruising...second degree burns..."

I pressed my eyes closed for a moment, my hands curling in the blankets, trying to chase the memories away, and when I opened my eyes again I looked to my left, at the window, where he had been standing.

Fractures could be mended, they always were. Bruises marred and hurt but then they were gone, all evidence gone. But the burns...the burns were the worst. They came later, when things got _really _bad. They hurt the most and left scars. Sometimes he'd laugh after he did it...a really strange, inhuman laugh.

The room was quiet for a moment, and then Ramirez cleared her throat just a little. I knew she'd put the two and two together, she was a cop, she probably had it totally figured by the time she stepped into the room. "Jane, I need to ask. I know someone is hurting you..."

I swallowed uncomfortably, not anxious for the rest of the conversation.

"Jane, is this person...Eric Pearce?"

I snapped my attention to her, my eyes wide, and I saw the surprise catch on her face.

"What?" I gasped, far more aghast than I wanted to sound.

She was taken aback, but then something else lit up in her eyes, something like piqued interest. "He signed the papers for two of your hospital admissions."

I looked down at my hands in my lap. I remembered those visits, one being when he punched my face and worried he'd broken my cheekbone; he rushed me in, held me, kept me curled against him, wrapped in his coat, told the nurse at the desk that I'd been smashed with a beer bottle in a nightclub. He held me the entire time we sat in the waiting room, hours on end, tearing up when he knew the nurses weren't looking and told me he was sorry, he was so sorry, he was just so stressed out, the job wasn't going at all the way it was supposed to, and that it would never happen again.

But of course it did. The second visit was a broken wrist. He didn't hold me in the waiting room that time. He held my hand, but he didn't hold me the way I wanted him to, and it wasn't just because of my wrist. He gave me the same spiel: he was sorry, it was the job, it was the boss, it was the capos, it was the Narrows, it was the whole fucking city, nothing was going right.

It was fair to say things just got worse from there. After that he didn't bother coming with me to the hospital. He knew better.

"Jane," Ramirez said quietly, breaking my train of heartbreaking thought. "Did he do this?"

I could have snickered. Stabbing wasn't like Eric, not like Eric at all. Instead, I shook my head, wanting to sigh in exasperation. "No-"

"Do you know where he is?" Ramirez asked, a little too eagerly. I knew why, too. I knew they flagged him the first time he got arrested running drugs for Carmine Falcone; I knew they'd be watching him until the day he died.

I felt my heart sink at that moment, and once more I looked over at the window where I had seen him standing against the gold. Yeah, I knew where he was.

"He's dead."

It was very silent in that room right at that moment. Ramirez didn't even seem to take a breath or anything after I'd said it. I continued to stare at the window, wondering if there was any other explanation, but I knew there wasn't.

The moment I saw Salvatore Maroni in our apartment that one night, I knew Eric was dead. I knew they'd killed him. I'd never know how they did it or what they did with his body. But I knew.

"You..._think_ he's dead?" Ramirez asked gently, and I looked over at her once more. "Or you know?"

I pulled my lips into a thin line. I guess it really wasn't all that helpful if I couldn't give her a solid answer. "I'm pretty sure."

She dropped her eyes and sighed a little; I had a feeling she had been looking forward to going into the Narrows and flushing Eric out to bring him into the station on an aggravated assault charge on his girlfriend, or whatever the hell the crime was technically labeled as.

"So this attack was unrelated?" she asked.

...Unrelated.

It came back to me in waves then, visions of the alley and the men and the knife glittering in the light and the way the bastard had grabbed me and held me and pressed the knife against my stomach...

And _Jack_.

I sucked in a breath and nodded. "Yes."

I could tell she was debating on how to broach the subject further without exhausting me. "Jane, I've been a cop a long time," she said, sympathetically. "I've seen girls in your situation. I know how hard it can be, but you owe it to yourself to get yourself _out_."

I stared at her, at her big dark eyes and her pretty features, at the pearls in her ears and the name tag on her jacket. I knew what she was thinking, I knew she'd seen girls in my situation make the same mistakes, over and over again, until they were in the hospital or worse, repeating the same patterns...

And then it hit me.

She knew Eric was hypothetically dead, she knew he hadn't stabbed me. She thought I'd gotten myself into another abusive relationship.

I sucked in a deep, alarmed breath and pressed my eyes closed.

"Jane?" she murmured delicately, having seen that I was obviously upset. "Is there a family member close-by that I can call? They didn't have an emergency contact for you other than, well..."

I wanted Amy. I wanted my sister right then more than anything. I wanted to hug her and feel her hug me and I wanted to cry so hard and let everything out, let it all go, and tell her what happened, tell her everything.

...But they would show her my file, I knew they would. They would ask her about it, about everything.

I couldn't let her see it, I couldn't let her know what happened. She hated Eric, right from the moment she met him, and I had defended him left right and center, with all the strength I had in me. I believed, at the time, that he was the best thing that had ever happened to me and I wouldn't stand to hear anyone say anything against him.

I couldn't let her see what he'd done to me over the years. I couldn't.

Sucking in a breath, I raised my eyes and looked at Ramirez. She was waiting patiently but expectedly. She was holding her little black police notebook, ready to jot down a number, an address, a name of someone she could call to come and see me.

"I don't have any family, Detective Ramirez."

Her eyes widened a little, as though she knew I was lying, and her eyebrows lowered just a little. "None at all? There's no one I can call?"

I stared at her, and for a brief moment I wanted nothing more than to give her Amy's name and number and tell her to get Amy to come down as fast as she could. But I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the strength.

"No. No one."

With a very severe look on her face, she sighed, bowed her head, and nodded a little as she tucked away her black book. I don't know if she bought it or not; I'm sure she heard the same lies from the same types of girls, the battered girls who didn't want to call for help, didn't want to draw attention to the trouble they were in.

"Well," she raised her eyes and smiled softly, kinda sweetly. "I should go, let you get some sleep."

She stood up then, and that was when I suddenly remembered. "Detective?"

Ramirez looked at me expectedly.

"I have a cat at home," I told her, my voice quite anxious. He'd been at the apartment alone for days. "He'll-"

"Say no more," she said, smiling. "I'll go to your apartment, with your permission, and have one of your neighbours look after him."

The last thing I wanted, really, was for her to see where I lived and the sad, sorry state of the place, but I saw no other option. I knew Mrs. Bellamy across the hall was probably decent enough to look after him for a few days. I felt a pang in my chest. I missed his damn little majesty. I hoped he was okay.

I thanked Detective Ramirez and watched her leave slowly and solemnly, and then I was left alone in my room, staring at my hands, listening to the sounds of the hospital around me. The nurse brought me a tray of food for lunch, but I couldn't bare the smell of it, let alone try to eat any of it. I had water and juice and I sat in the quiet and hesitantly touched my stomach where I'd been stabbed.

I would have bled to death in that alley, I knew it. I would have died in that alley, cold and alone. No one would have known. Who's to say my body would have been found right away? I didn't have any emergency contacts in my hospital papers. Amy never would have known. My parents never would have known. I would have died and been dead to all the world...

Except I wasn't. I wasn't, because of Batman.

Eric could have killed me, I knew he could of. A few times I thought he was damn near close to doing it, too. He could have killed me and not once, not _once _did I even think about picking up the phone and calling the police and having him arrested, of picking up my things and disappearing before he had a chance to get out and find me. Not once.

I could have been dead several times over, but I wasn't. Batman had saved me. Of all the places in Gotham City, of all the deep, dark, dank alleyways in the Narrows, he happened to come across the one I had been stabbed in, the one I had passed out in. I didn't know what the odds were, I didn't care to think of them, really. All I knew was that Batman had saved me and I was alive and I was alive for a reason.

And I knew what that reason was.

I had let Eric get away with damn near murder because I loved him, it was true, I admit it.

But I didn't love Jack.

I knew Jack would continue to hurt people, the way he hurt those men in the alley, the way he intended to hurt Estelle, the way he likely hurt the goon and the hooker in 306, the way he hurt _me_.

But it couldn't continue. I couldn't let it. Detective Ramirez was right; I owed it to myself to get out. But I had to do more than that.

/

With the phone in the room I called the Gotham City Police Department. I asked for Lieutenant Gordon and they told me he was out on a call. I left him a message and asked for Ramirez, but she was unavailable too. The operator told me that both of them were due back at the station momentarily and she would be sure to give them the messages, and I thanked her, though secretly I was frustrated. I considered asking for another officer, but it seemed best to talk to Gordon or Ramirez first, they would know what it was regarding, I was sure.

I then anxiously called the Palace; I didn't know if Jack had gone back to the Palace or not after the attack, but if he had, they had to know to call the police the moment they knew he was back in 310. But there was no answer at the front desk; I tried several times, getting nothing each time I tried. By then it was late in the afternoon and I knew Martin had probably gone home for the day. With the lack of business the Palace was getting, I doubted Estelle found it all that necessary to keep someone on the front desk at all hours. After three tries and no answer, I found myself teary and anxious and frustrated. I didn't want to wait. What if he had gone to the hotel and decided to leave? If he checked out, there'd be no finding him again. Not in the Narrows.

The nurse, having seen my anxiety, gave me morphine and something to help me sleep.

Of all the injuries I'd sustained over the years, the stabbing was by far the most painful and horrible I'd ever experienced. They were generous with the morphine, and for that I was grateful, but I felt groggy and heavy, and when my mind was relatively clear, all I could think about was Jack and what had happened in the alley. Had he gone back to the hotel after I pushed him away? Did he chase after the bastards that had attacked us? Did he sleep at all that night right after what had happened?

I had this weird feeling he wouldn't have gone back to the hotel after it happened, and my phone calls were all in vain...but where else would he have gone?

There was no doubt in my mind that he had killed the goon and the hooker in 306, no doubt at all. But would Gordon make me testify when they brought him in? I knew he'd have questions, I knew there'd be a lot...and I knew he'd be disappointed to hear I'd had my suspicions and never reported any of them...but I could put this right. I knew I could.

I stared at the window where I'd seen Eric as my eyes became heavy with drug-induced sleepiness. It hadn't really occurred to me how much I had missed him until I saw him there. We had been happy once, when we left Metropolis and came to the Narrows. We had our own apartment; it was tiny and shitty but it was ours. My parents didn't know where we were so I didn't have to hear their (what I thought was at the time) bullshit. They hated Eric, hated him with a _passion_; they could see past his dashing looks and his mesmerizing voice and his wicked charm, they knew he was bad, they knew there was meanness in him and they tried to tell me but I wouldn't listen. Of course I wouldn't. I was too young.

I didn't tell them where I was going because I didn't tell them I was leaving. I knew it must have killed them. I knew they must have been terrified. Thinking back on it I had no idea how I could have done that to them; the notion filled me with shame.

I had found Amy easily enough after Eric disappeared and Salvatore Maroni told me to run. Amy...I probably would have died if she hadn't helped me. And as much as I wanted to see my parents between the quick, awkward voicemails I left on their landline so they knew I was okay, I couldn't see them. Not yet.

I knew the time was soon; I'd been stabbed and I could have died without reconciling, without telling them how sorry I was. It wasn't right and I knew it.

But Jack came first. He had to.

/

I slept like the dead with thanks to the medication they gave me, working my way through hazy dreams of rain and darkness but with feelings of determination and decisiveness. But then something woke me up.

It was the middle of the night; the only light in the room at all, low and grim, came in gloomily from the reception area outside my door. I could hear the pouring rain outside the window.

Someone was in the room with me.

I could feel the weight of a body sitting at the foot of the bed. As I slowly woke myself up and struggled to see who it was in the darkness, I remember feeling a very real sense of _what the fuck_ when my eyes settled on my visitor.

"Polly?" I whispered in disbelief.

There she was. Sitting at the foot of the bed, silently, watching me sleep.

It's not like I didn't think she would visit me in the hospital if she knew I was there; in fact I knew for a fact that she would have. No, what seemed so strange was that she was dressed in her uniform...and only her uniform. No cotton-candy coloured raincoat. No umbrella. Her hair was dry, pulled back into a high ponytail the way she always wore it. Her makeup was perfect; her soft pink lips were pulled back into a very lovely smile, and her eyes sparkled.

I sat up as much as my strength would allow and stared at her, wondering why she was sitting at the foot of the bed instead of the chair waiting against the far wall. I wondered why she was sitting there in the dark, not bothering to turn on the corner lamp, if only for a bit of light. I wondered why she seemed to be still as a statue, even though she was there...she was definitely there.

I felt the gentle weight of her hand on my ankle over the covers. Her other hand was placed in her lap, one leg crossed over the other. She just continued to smile at me, not saying a word, not moving a muscle, not _breathing_, so it seemed...

...

I felt my eyebrows knit together, and my lips open, and the goosebumps roll over my arms. She was there, she was right there in front of me...so why did it feel so...

I stared at her, and she just stared back at me, smiling, eyes glittering. I wanted to reach out and touch her, brush my fingertips over her hand, just to make sure...

But then -

Just like that.

She was gone.

/


	24. Madness, as you know, is like gravity

When I woke up, Lieutenant Gordon was sitting in the chair next to my bed rubbing his face with his hands. When he saw that I was awake, he tried to smile, give me one of those comforting, father-figure smiles that I'd come to recognize in him. But he couldn't fool me; he looked as though he'd been to Hell and back.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. My eyes flushed with tears and my being filled with dread.

I knew what had happened.

Polly was dead.

**/**


	25. Chapter 24

**A/N: **Thank you to **Leyshla Gisel, Kiku No Tsuyu, linalove, SnailsAndPuppyDogTails, Ravenclaw992, Banana, cathy loves heath, Platinim13, MrsServSnape, MrsCullen123, YoursAnnie, Robotdonkey, Serendipity's tears, Firerosemon, ShipsThatFly, SammiRichGurl, InTheShadowOfSignificance, HelloKeke, ImNotALizard, Lutricity, CrazyinAbottle, Lady Liesel, blu, kittykat6625, FireEnchantress, iwishtheskywasgreen, Emma, SaxonBandwagon, Yuki Hikari, EmilyEverlasting, SavvyJackie, LeatherLaceSilkAndChains, Lasgalendil, pourquoibella, TinkerbellxO, The Cowgirl Bookworm, boca3, LuckyBabe, Guest, missBENNETT, SaiyanPrincessxXx, Detectivetactical, Guest, manamikuran126, ZenyZootSuit, Bloody-Asphode11, Frenzy In Delirium, Guest, allthelovers, KorroksApostle, Jacki Thompson, Layla Lia King, kab, FantasyHearts818, itsjustanotherbrickinthewall, themanonthemoon, FreedomSearcher, Gen3683icy6, Kichigai17, draconiswolfsbane, Guest, Guest, Guest, NimbusLumos31, Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, Yami Mizuna, AmberCryn221b, Um, Guest, absinth-tein, Eviline, Brandi Anderson, K9Train, StormeySkys, ShineLovely, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, honeybeeze, Gunz Ablaze, SayoViolin, Emma, Scrambled-Dry, liz-04, kab, Liz, Guest, **and **Miyukino **for your combined reviews of Chapter Twenty-Three Parts I and II.

**VERY IMPORTANT:** This the last official chapter, but an epilogue is soon to follow.

**Housekeeping**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**/**

How many times had I been close to death in my life?

One time, about a week before he disappeared, Eric came home quiet, high on something, and dangerously irritable. He didn't answer when I asked where he'd been, if he was okay, if he was hungry. When he saw that there were no ice cubes in the ice cube tray, he smashed his glass of water across my face. I went down hard in a heap of terrified shaking, sobbing, and gushing blood while he walked into the living room and turned on the TV. I don't know how long I was like that on the kitchen floor, curling myself into a fetal position, hugging myself for comfort, letting myself bleed and cry; all I knew was that I wished someone could hear me and come inside, someone who wasn't giggling at something on the TV, someone who wasn't high as shit, someone who was going to run me a bath and pick me up and take care of me. Someone who didn't make me feel so worthless. Someone who didn't make me feel so alone.

I stared down at the bloodstains on the floor of 310, red and vibrant in the sickly low light; how long had Polly been on the floor, desperately clinging to life, wondering if someone would find her and take care of her? Wondering if someone would be with her when it happened, so that she wouldn't be alone?

The cold enveloped me as I sat on the corner of the bare mattress. The room had been stripped; anything that held any remnants of Jack whatsoever was gone. Whether he took everything with him when he ran or the police took it away as evidence or they threw it in the dumpster in the alley, whatever they did, it was gone. It was all gone.

All that was left, really, was the mattress on the frame, the curtain rod, the barren desk, and Polly's blood on the floor.

I had known, as soon as I'd pulled away the yellow police tape meagerly barricading the door with my fingers, and as I'd opened the door with my master key, I knew that I was stepping outside of myself, outside of a world I'd known for years and grown used to, into a single room that was all in all otherworldly: another dimension, another realm, another consciousness. When the door closed behind me I felt as though I'd forsaken something, like I'd stepped out of my body and was watching myself take in this horrific scene, this cold, dead recognition. I felt out of my mind with grief and yet stalemate at the same time, believing in what had happened but not believing. Not wanting to believe.

Before I'd opened the door, before I'd pushed it open gently with my fingertips, something in the back of my head told me to stop, to close the door, turn around, walk down the stairs, out the front door, away from the Palace, away from the hotel of death, never to return. Never never _never_. Something in my mind knew that no good could come of seeing what I was seeing, that I could go on living without having to see this, that the world would turn and time would pass just so long as I didn't let myself into 310 and behold the death that had seeped into the air and lie drying on the cheap carpet.

But I did have to see it.

She'd been angry...she'd been so angry with me and I hadn't thought to put her mind at ease. I didn't run after her or stop her in the bar to tell her she was right, I knew she was right and I couldn't bear to have her angry with me. Not her.

When I'd first started at the Palace, I was frightened and lonely and rather mistrustful of other people; I was covered with healing cuts and bruises and burns, carefully rationing the money Amy had given me when I'd gone to her for help. When Estelle had been brusque and Lois indifferent, Polly was beautiful and sweet and helpful; she asked me once what I wanted to do when I was older, and I told her. I told her I wanted to be a zoologist. She laughed her pretty laugh, in a way that made me smile, and told me that being a maid was kind of like being a zookeeper, only we looked after larger, grosser, less intelligent animals.

But Jack was not an unintelligent animal. No he was _not. _

He knew his territory. He marked it with broken glass and ha ha has. He let me in. God knows why, but he let me in.

I let her walk out so I could talk to Jack. I pushed Jack away so he would come back to the hotel. I was in a hospital bed, unconscious, for days, unbeknownst to anyone, while Estelle had her take over the rooms on the third floor. Batman saved my life while hers was being slashed and drowned in blood and horror. He let me in and I sent herin, a lamb into the lion's den.

And then I let him escape.

Polly was dead because of _me_; no amount of uncontrollable sobbing, heart-wrenching agony and total and undeniable despair could relieve me of that knowledge. Lieutenant Gordon didn't tell me how he'd killed her and I was grateful_, _but I could see it in his eyes. She died violently, in pain, great fear...alone, and taking a last glance around the cold room of death that 310 had become, I was frightened that Polly was stuck there, in that room, unable to leave. Unable to leave the hotel and the job that had condemned her to death, unable to leave the room that held her trapped forever.

But then I remembered, and took what little comfort I could, in knowing that she had appeared to me, smiling. She had touchedmy ankle before she went, as if to tell me that she knew I would have my moment of panic, that I would blame myself, but that it was all right, that wherever she was, it was not the Palace. Wherever she was, it was bright and beautiful and she was smiling because she was happy, because it was not this accursed place. It was _not_ Gotham City. And I remembered Eric in the golden light, a memory of who he used to be. Wherever _he _was, it was not the Narrows.

It was a bleak, _bleak _thought, that the only way to escape the Narrows, that the only way to escape Gotham, was to die. But in so many ways, it seemed so plausible. And at that time, even as the pain and despair was still so fresh and so hard and would stay with me forever, there was very little to do but take some comfort in knowing that wherever they were, they were happy, and they were safe.

I would move on in whatever way I could so long as I held that in mind.

_/_

Martin wasn't at the front desk and I was disappointed; I wanted to say goodbye. When I went into the break room to leave behind my uniform and my keys and pick up my last cheque, I saw Mr. Halterstead's door was closed and wondered if Estelle was hiding inside, trying to shut out what the world had dealt her, trying to forget the third day Jane didn't show up for work and she told Polly to take care of the rooms on the third floor. I thought about knocking to see if she was in but then decided against it. I wouldn't lose sleep if I left and never saw her again. I knew she likely felt the same way about me.

I listened to the bell ring over the door as I stepped out into the air, out of the hotel of death. I took a moment to consider that I would never see it again, never step foot in it again. But it was not a reassuring thought. Visions of the place would follow me for as long as I lived.

I took in the sight of the Narrows surrounding me, a place full of life that was not life. I stared at the road, the sidewalk, the passing cars, the people, a cesspool, clutching my cheque between my frigid fingers, looking up the road one way and then the other. The Narrows came to sordid life all around me, neon lights bleeding into wet concrete and dirty windows, people meandering along with no sense of direction, no purpose, huddling around cigarettes and styrofoam coffee cups and bottles hidden in brown paper bags. Businesses were barely open, looking as though they'd deflated, those that weren't boarded up with the lights out. Concrete and garbage and chain-linked fences and pornographic posters and broken down cars and people with no life left, no sense of joy, no passion. Just shells in a skeleton of a city.

And somewhere amongst them was a Chelsea-smiled shell of a man dressed in a raincoat too big for him, carrying around bags of paper and dirty clothes with holes in them and little tins of red, black and white greasepaint. A man who'd come out of the gutter to salvage life and then retreat as a fugitive with no fingerprints, a man without a face, without an identity, without a single shred of anything resembling humanity, conscience, or remorse. Before turning my back on 310 I let myself into the bathroom, where the curtain had been removed and the greasepaint washed off, however sloppily. I took in the sight of the cracks, the chips, the broken glass, and where he had thrown a punch against it, and I really understood why. I knew what he saw when he looked in the mirror; I knew what he saw that needed to be broken. I'd have punched it out too.

Gordon had told me in the hospital, right before he left, that they would find him. They would find him and they would make him answer for what he did. He smiled at me sadly in that way that reminded me so much of my own father and he placed a very reassuring hand on my shoulder when he told me, when he _promised _me, that they would find him.

But I didn't want them to just _find _him. I wanted them to find him and kill him. I wanted them to find him so I could slap him across the face, spit in his eye, scream in his ear, claw at his face with my fingernails, disfigure him even more, as much as I could, as much as he could take.

And yet at the same time I didn't want them to find Jack. I wanted Jack to disappear, to go away, fade into the dark dankness of the Narrows where he could be lost and forgotten. I wanted to forget him. I wanted to forget all of it. But I knew I couldn't. I trusted Gordon would find him and do what was needed, what was warranted. I had to.

Part of me knew I should have been scared he'd come after me; there was no doubt in my mind that he would be able to find me if he really wanted to. But he wouldn't. I could identify him and testify against him, if they ever caught him, but deep down I knew they wouldn't. He would disappear into the grime, slither beneath the city and never be seen again by the light of the world. He wouldn't come after me, he wouldn't bother. He'd let any memory of me and what he did for me and whatever fleeting fucked up menial relationship that we had just wash away like rain down the drain. He couldn't even call me by name. He probably didn't _know _my name. If he ever did, he'd forget. He'd forget like I would try to forget.

But the Narrows themselves...they could never be forgotten. Once upon a time they'd been a vision of grimy romance, of the underground of a bustling metropolis where two young people desperately in love could live and work and make the best of what it was because they had each other. We had holed ourselves into our shitty little apartment where we woke up to rain and gray light but spent hours in bed, naked, making love or talking or reading or laughing. No one knew who we were, what we were about, except that we were all about each other, there only for each other.

And as much as I wanted to forget it, forget it all and never think on it again, I knew I couldn't. The thought made me shake my head. A place and a time in my life filled with pain and misery and death and horror. Honestly, how could someone feel so strongly about something so horrible, feel so reluctant to let it go? It's just like Jack said, once: it's a funny world we live in.

Thunder rolled overhead and I looked up, anticipating the rain. I pulled my hood on over my head and zipped my coat up to my chin and slowly made my way towards the train. It was still a bit of a trip to Amy's. And his little majesty would be hungry.

/


	26. Epilogue

**A/N: **Very special thanks to **Scruffy-Nerf-Hearder, CeliaSingsSongs, Scrambled-Dry, Leyshla Gisel, Retainer, cypris88, linalove, kittykat6625, evilmonkeyfishturtle, InTheShadowOfSignificance, Elsain, Tearsheet, TheAravis, SlenderXLover, Cricket-moon, iwishtheskywasgreen, LeatherLaceSilkAndChains, labyrinthloverxx, pourqouibella, HelloKeke, Serendipity's tears, Guest, ShipsThatFly, SaxonBandwagon, Firerosemon, Ravenclaw992, vampgurl90, 13eyondx, StargazingED, itsjustanotherbrickinthewall, TinkerbellxO, **and **Madalait. **

**Hold your breath and count to ten.**

**Housekeeping**

**Epilogue**

**/**

With a heavy sigh, Gordon pushed past the police tape blocking off the door and let himself into the dim, dark, dingy apartment space, with rotting walls and stained carpet, the smell of mildew and blood assaulting his nostrils. Ramirez and Burkes were inside already, reviewing their notes and talking in hushed voices while forensics were scattered around looking for traces of whatever they could find. As soon as she caught sight of him, Ramirez approached. She looked exhausted.

"How many?" He asked as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

"Two," she said, showing him into the room, where the bodies had fallen unceremoniously to the ground, blood pooling around heads and mouths from cuts Gordon couldn't see and was afraid to see. "Lacerations to the neck, cause of death blood loss."

"Zsasz?" Gordon asked, bending down to try to get a look at the bodies.

"Well..." she sounded skeptical, which piqued his interest. Zsasz had been at large for weeks, they'd found a couple of his gruesome crime scenes in recent nights; mostly the victims were posed, but sometimes they weren't. It was always the same shit; knife wounds, lots of blood, typically Narrow brutes as the murder victims. Who else could it have been? "Knife wounds are precise and thin, probably looking at a much more delicate blade than the typical butter-knives Zsasz uses."

"Any sign of a possible murder weapon?" Gordon asked, trying to get as good a look at the knife wounds as he could from where he was.

Ramirez made a negative sound in her throat and cast a glance around the room. "Forensics is on it."

Frowning, Gordon took off his glasses to get a better look at the victims. Typical big-guy tattooed Narrow brutes whose last moments were spent drooling into a puddle of their own blood. He couldn't see the knife wounds but he knew it wouldn't have been pretty, given the amount of blood on the carpet. Gordon sighed heavily and looked into the one man's murky dark eyes, all life extinguished hours before. He closed his eyes for a moment; the whole thing was all in all far too familiar, far too reminiscent of a crime scene he'd seen recently and very much wanted to forget.

"It doesn't really fit Zsasz's MO," Ramirez said, sticking her hands on her hips. "I think we're looking at another suspect."

Gordon sighed heavily. Given everything that had happened in recent days, all he could have asked for was a crime and a scene that would give them enough to lead them to Zsasz, to find him and put him away for as long as they could and try to move on with their lives, until the next big problem came along. "Wonderful," he stood up, and took off his glasses to wipe them with a corner of his shirt. "Who called it in?"

"Street person down on the corner; said he saw these two-" she gestured to the two bodies. "-come inside, and then about a half hour later, a third guy comes hurrying out, takes off down the street."

"He get a good look at him?"

Ramirez shook her head. "Not really, judging by his description," she opened her black book to a specific page. "Caucasian maybe, about six foot, lanky...didn't get much more from him than that, witness said the suspect was wearing a great big coat, covered his face."

Gordon took it all in, and then he nodded, taking another look around the room. The place was being lived in; there were clothes strewn about and musty-looking blankets and a stained pillow made up a makeshift bed on the ratty, broken couch. Off towards the window was a table, not quite a desk, covered with junk. It was barely habitable, but someone had made a home in it. "Who's place is it?"

"We're checking out the name on the lease, but my guess is it'll come back bogus," she told him, and he believed her. "I'm thinking our suspect lived here and was ambushed by these two."

"Any idea on motive?"

"Not sure yet. Robbery, possibly." She sounded skeptical, given that there was nothing in the place worth stealing, but Gordon figured it was more than likely. He guessed maybe it was a meeting that had gone wrong or exchange of bad goods ending in a knife fight. Narcotics or weapons deal, maybe.

Ramirez's cellphone went off in her pocket, and as she went out of the room into the hallway to answer it, Gordon moved about the room, taking in everything, the light streaming in from in-between the wooden panels barricading the window, allowing a very limited view of the street down below. Every step he took on the carpet crunched under his shoes and it made him winch; he didn't want to see what he was stepping on. He looked down at the couch where the makeshift bed had been made; maybe they'd find some hair follicles, run it through the database, snag a hit. Bit of a long-shot, but not impossible.

He looked up and saw forensics moving in and out of a doorway in the far corner, probably a tiny, grimy little bathroom that he had no interest in seeing, unless they found something promising. He looked down at the two bodies once more, and then cast another glance around the room.

The little desk pushed up against the window piqued his interest. He moved towards it and noticed that while the desk was littered with pieces of junk, paper and whatnot, there was a very large, very obvious blank space on the desktop. He considered the surface area of the desk, looked at the other junk splayed around the perimeters of the desk, placed around whatever was sitting on the desk. Something was missing; a book, a bunch of important papers, a box, something, something fairly big.

"We have ID on our guys," Ramirez said, coming towards him, closing her cellphone and pulling out her little black book. "Paul Meridia and Allan Wates, couple of ex-cons, busted three years ago for bank robbery, did 18 months each in Blackgate."

Gordon could barely hear her; he tapped on the desk surface with his finger. "Something's missing here," he turned on her. "Did your witness see our suspect carrying anything?

Ramirez frowned and moved forward, as though he'd found something she'd overlooked and wanted a good look at it. She looked down at the desk, considered the spot, and nodded. "I'll ask him, what d'you think we're looking for?"

Gordon shook his head. "I'm not sure, but there was something laid out here, something he probably grabbed on his way out."

"I'll check with our guy," she said, and then he heard her walk away from him and leave the room.

Gordon stood back and looked down at the desk surface, his hands on his hips. No doubt about it, he figured; the suspect got into an altercation with the two bank robbers, killed them, and in a panic to get away from the scene, grabbed what he could, which judging by the mess wasn't much. But there was something spread out on the desktop that he wanted, _needed_, and wasn't going to leave without.

Maybe it was more than robbery or a drug deal gone wrong. Two convicted bank robbers meeting here, perhaps meeting a third member of their party. Things went wrong, maybe a fight over the next job, the amount they were going to get, or any other number of minor details. He wasn't holding out hope that the lease would bring back a possible ID on their suspect, but sometimes they got lucky. Sometimes.

Gordon opened the drawer on the desk and found an array of pens and Sharpies in blacks and red, and the more he pulled out the drawer and the more he pushed around the pens and everything, the less he could see. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he hoped it would be more than a few pens they would get a partial print off, at best.

He closed the drawer, knowing forensics would catalogue everything and maybe they'd get a few prints off them, but he doubted it. He reached under the desk for the trashcan and set it down on the chair in front of him; at first survey, all he could see was a bunch of fast food containers and small pieces of paper, receipts, most likely. Taking a pen out of his shirt pocket, he pushed things around with the end of it, trying to get a better look at whatever was crammed in the bottom, if anything, but there wasn't anything. It was all the same stuff.

As Gordon bent down to set the trashcan under the desk where he found it, something caught his eye, something stuck between the leg of the desk and the wall. It was a small, round thing, dark, soft-looking.

He rounded the desk and bent down to pick it up, gave it a little shake to get the debris and crumbs and whatnot off, and he held it up into the light where he could get a good look at it. He felt himself frown.

A plush toy. Must have been sitting on the corner of the desk and fallen off. Hard to believe someone who'd killed two men so brutally would have a plush toy lying around -and in fairly good condition, too - unless it'd been given to him, or something.

A _Batman_ plush toy, no less.

...

Huh.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**You've changed things. Forever.**


	27. Dedication

**In Loving Memory**

There is a moment in "The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnarssus" where you can tell that that's where they picked up filming after Heath's death. In the dialogue in that scene, the director, Terry Gillam, reminds us: Heath may be gone, taken from us before his time, but he is "immortal, nonetheless."

In a way, Heath has become immortal; Heath's Joker is immortal.

I am more than honoured to write this story in his memory.

**Rest in peace, Heath. We love you.**

When I started this story, I never imagined it would have the following it has; in the three years it has taken me to write this story, I have gone through some really horrible things in my personal life, but what helped me get through it all, and keep writing, was the incredible feedback and support I received from you. I am so incredibly grateful to each and every one of you for reading, reviewing, favouring and following Housekeeping. This story, and interacting with you every step of the way, has been nothing short of an incredible part of my life that I will never forget.

As a last note, I just want to say this:

I **love** Batman.

As a comic, as a multitude of highly entertaining cartoon shows, as a series of video games and graphic novels, as a collections of action figures, figurines and hot toys, as a beautiful and breathtaking trilogy of the finest superhero films ever made, and as a _story…_

Nobody understands.

My family doesn't understand. My coworkers don't understand. My friends don't understand.

But YOU understand, don't you?

That's why I write fanfiction.

**For you**.


	28. Fun & Games

**Fun & Games**

So, as most of you know or have probably guessed, I'm a BIG gamer.

And there's nothing more fun and exciting than playing a game and finding…

…an **Easter Egg.**

I have hidden **five Batman-related **Easter Eggs all throughout Housekeeping. Some of them are really obvious while others are _really _difficult to spot. They relate, in some way or another, to the Nolanverse films, the games Arkham Asylum and Arkham City, and to any of the Batman characters.

Now I know unless you've played the games and whatnot, it might be really tricky to find these Easter Eggs, so I've included the chapters they're hiding in:

Chapter 7

Chapter 10

Chapter 16

Chapter 19

Chapter 21

If you think you've found all five of them, **PM me** and I will write you a one-shot. Details will be discussed.

Happy hunting. :P


	29. There's no going back

**There's no going back.**

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"So," Amy mused as she flipped through the pages of her magazine. "Daddy wants to meet us on Wednesday at Chirno's, that sound good?"

I didn't take my eyes off the cucumber I was slicing; behind me the television babbled, and in the corner I could hear Henry crunching away on his dinner. It would be the first time in almost seven years that I would see my father; it sounded too good to be true. "Yeah," I said, glancing up at her. "But will you be able to eat anything there? It's pretty exotic."

Amy snorted a little and shook her head as she continued to dismissively turn the pages of her magazine with her finely manicured hands. "The book didn't say anything about duck. I want my duck l'orange."

I smiled to myself as I munched on a slice of cucumber, taking a moment to smell the cucumber scent on my fingernails, the way I used to as a child. Amy always had rather refined tastes, even in the days before she met Matt. We used to have the hardest time picking a restaurant to go to as a family because she always wanted something particular. "Might make you sick."

She waved a hand at me. "Nah, the baby will love it."

I grinned, noticing that from where I stood at the island and where she sat on her barstool, I could just barely make out the bump through her pink sweater. She was intent on keeping her weight down since finding out the news, but she now had a significant bump and though it had irritated her at first, she was starting to accept it, that and her food cravings. She looked amazing; she always did, but now she was glowing, and her hair seemed more golden, her eyes bigger and brighter and bluer than ever before. I knew that Dad was going to freak when he saw her; she'd phoned them with the news, but they hadn't been to Gotham to see her and Matt since Christmas.

The thought of seeing my Dad made me nervous, but I was excited too. Amy had called them when I moved in to let them know what was happening, and though I spoke to them briefly on the phone, I couldn't answer their questions, and they had a lot of them. I knew one day I'd tell them everything, but now wasn't the time, and over the phone didn't seem an appropriate way to tell them how sorry I was about everything that had happened.

Over my shoulder I heard the news music change and a reporter speak loudly. "_And an update on the robbery at Gotham City Bank this afternoon in downtown Gotham-_"

"What should I get Matt for his birthday?" Amy asked, in an absent-minded tone.

I shrugged. "I don't know, what'd you get him last year?"

"A gym membership," she said, sipping her lemonade. "Not like he uses it, mind you, the ungrateful bastard. I brought it up the other day and he said there was no point in using it now since any weight he puts on from here on in is part of his sympathy pregnancy."

I couldn't help but laugh before I sipped my own lemonade. When I first met Matt, I knew I would love him like he was my own brother. And I did.

Over my shoulder the TV continued to babble. "_Police have now released a surveillance picture taken of the man they believe-_"

Amy looked up, finally, letting her gaze settle on the TV report, and I watched as her features curdled. She swallowed her mouthful of lemonade and held out her arms dramatically. "Oh my god, really?" I turned to look. "He robbed the bank dressed like a _clown_? What the hell is wrong with this city?"

I stared at the TV and took in the face of the man who held up the bank.

And I heard glass shatter.

"Jane?" Amy's voice was faint, far away; I almost couldn't hear her, though I knew she was sitting right behind me.

Greasepaint.

White.

Black.

_Red_.

"Jane!"

_**Jack**_.

/

**You thought it was over.**

**Jane did too.**

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**Remnant**

**February 2014**


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